None but the Dead (16 page)

The tide was out and the stretch of shore below the sea wall was thick with rocks and seaweed, or tangle as Tor called it.

‘It used to make folk a packet of money. Tons of it gathered and sent to the mainland. It contains a natural gel like gelatine.’

Tor had kept him entertained with such stories in between serving two darts players, a couple who were more interested in checking their mobiles than drinking, and the Norwegian girl,
who’d popped in to ask when he wanted the music to begin the following night.

Her appearance had been a welcome surprise, but unfortunately short-lived, and although she’d acknowledged McNab’s presence, she hadn’t indicated a need to hang about and talk
to him. His disappointment at this had resulted in a stab of guilty conscience and he’d attempted to call Freya. When it had gone to voicemail, he’d covered his relief with a jokey
message about being cut off in the wilds, and said he would try again tomorrow.

If I call now, there’s a chance I’ll catch Freya before she heads for the university library.

Before he could make up his mind on this, his mobile rang. McNab glanced at the screen to find an unknown caller.

‘Sergeant McNab, Sam Flett here. I’ve found an old photograph of Jamie Drever.’

McNab thanked him, and they arranged to meet at the heritage centre, after the interviews at the community centre.

‘I’ll be there most of the day. PC Tulloch has a list of folk wanting to speak to us.’

‘You’re the big attraction around here at the moment,’ Sam told him.

McNab brightened momentarily at the thought of a morning being served espresso and home-made Battenberg cake by the young lady from Norway, then PC Tulloch drew alongside him, wearing a beaming
smile.

Erling reached out to discover Rory’s side of the bed empty and already cold.

The wind’s dropped so he’s headed back to Flotta.

And I’m bound for Sanday.

He swung his legs out of bed and stood up, his head suddenly reminding him how much red wine they’d drunk the previous evening. Erling smiled, deciding the residual pain was worth it. He
headed for the shower, noting that Rory’s toilet bag had already been removed, which meant he’d been out of here early.

Turning on the shower to full power, he reflected on the night before with some pleasure. In particular when Rory had told him what he believed was the explanation for the mysterious phone call
that had so worried him.

It turned out that Rory had a sister. Well, a half-sister to be precise, and that’s who’d called him. Based in New York, they rarely saw one another.

‘I thought a trip to the Big Apple might be our first holiday together,’ Rory had then suggested.

Erling had been pleased by both the explanation for the call and the offer. Of course, he hadn’t exhibited relief, or admitted that he’d been aware of the sister’s call in the
first place. Although at one point in the proceedings, he’d intercepted a look from Rory that made him wonder if he had in fact been spotted in the porch that night.

That’s the policeman in me.

His mood on the way to Kirkwall was improved even further by the transformation in the weather. Scapa Flow and the hills of Hoy were in full view, with hardly a breath of wind to ruffle the
waters. The forecast had promised a calm break of at least forty-eight hours, hopefully sufficient to let Dr MacLeod finish her excavation, and have all the evidence transported south.

The mystery of the body buried beneath the playground would take longer to solve, if solve it they could, with most of the witnesses of the time already dead.

And probably the perpetrator also in his grave.

According to PC Tulloch, Sanday folk were turning out to help with their enquiries, and they had been given at least one possible name for the victim, which Erling was following up on. Had they
located the skull, a photofit would have probably avoided an unnecessary search.

Just like the more recent destruction of some of the evidence, the removal of the skull now looked like a wilful attempt to disrupt police enquiries, but to what end he had no idea.

The police were no more popular on Sanday than anywhere else. Regarded as a necessary evil to the majority of the population on the mainland of Scotland, it was the same on Orkney.

Sanday, unused to a police presence, didn’t think it needed one and there would be a few folk keen to see them leave. But tampering with evidence wouldn’t help that happen. On the
other hand, implicating someone in the tampering might settle an old score, and like anywhere else, there were always scores to settle.

And thus the call that had arrived from DS McNab just as he’d left the house, alerting Erling to a finger being pointed at Mike Jones and asking for his background to be checked. Something
he planned to set in motion, but as discreetly as possible.

‘You’re sure about this?’

‘Quite sure,’ Rhona said.

‘I could stay, help you finish more quickly.’

‘It’s important you get back to the lab and start processing the material. I’ll be back in a couple of days.’

‘If the weather holds.’

‘It will, according to Derek,’ Rhona said. ‘I’ll work on the grave today, visit the island for a sample of the shell sand tomorrow. Then I’ll be home,’ she
promised.

A pair of arms was waving at them from the helicopter, indicating it was time to depart.

‘Right, that’s me off, then.’

Rhona watched as Chrissy ran towards the chopper, its blades already turning. She was pulled inside and, with a brief wave, the helicopter rose and headed off in a southeasterly direction.

Rhona waited as Derek’s jeep approached and pulled up alongside.

‘Where to now, Dr MacLeod?’

‘Back to the excavation.’

The contrast to her earlier work was marked. Then she had been checking the advancing sky and constantly thinking about the rising strength of the wind. Today, erecting a
forensic tent was a distinct possibility. One which Rhona decided to take.

She found herself pleased to be in the blue confines once more, free from observation. Not that Mike Jones had bothered them much, being unnerved by the presence of a grave in his back garden,
but the solitude of the tent was something she enjoyed.

As she’d intimated to Mike, the soil from beneath the remains was as important as the soil above. In different circumstances and weather, they would have sifted the material as it was
extracted, to discover anything buried in it. Worm action distributed items throughout soil, which meant that because something was near the surface didn’t mean that it had started off
there.

Rhona worked steadily, using the camera as before, a replacement stand having been delivered via the helicopter this morning. Up to now, her most interesting find was a handful of broken shells.
This time they weren’t attached to anything, suggesting that they might have been in a pocket of an item of clothing, long since disintegrated, or perhaps dropped into the grave at the time
of the burial.

The morning passed into early afternoon undisturbed. She took a break then, writing up her notes, the sun still free in a cloudless sky, dancing light on the tent roof. Despite their early rise,
Chrissy had made up sandwiches and filled a thermos for her.

Rhona emerged now from the tent, determined to seek out a sheltered spot to enjoy her lunch with a view to the island and the distant lighthouse. She could hear hammering and guessed that Mike
was working on the section of the building still under renovation.

He hadn’t approached her all morning, in fact she suspected he was intent on avoiding her completely. However, there had been a note on the back door inviting her to use the toilet
whenever necessary. Rhona decided to take up his offer before she set off for lunch.

She hadn’t been alone in the schoolhouse before, and now took a moment to admire what Mike had done to the place. The rural primary school she’d attended on Skye had resembled this
one – the main classroom with its open rafters, and tall windows to make the most of the natural light. As a little girl, she’d often looked out of windows like these towards a deserted
beach that she longed to play on.

Making her way to the bathroom, Rhona noticed what she thought might be an intervening door and decided to go and warn Mike she was in his house.

As the door swung open, she realized her mistake. Rhona hesitated, a little embarrassed at being in Mike’s bedroom, yet not immediately withdrawing. Invading someone’s private space
wasn’t something she usually did, but she was curious about Mike Jones, particularly since the previous evening, when he’d been loath to admit the existence of his child visitor.

Now she was perhaps looking at the reason why.

The drawing stood on an easel, a sheet pulled up to expose a girl’s face, wide-eyed and innocent. Dark hair cut just below the chin, eyes intensely blue. There was an old-fashioned feeling
about the sketch, as though it was of a pupil of the schoolroom next door.

Rhona edged forward, drawn by the image, then realized another smaller canvas sat next to it, hidden by the sheet. She eased the cloth back.

The second was a painting of a flower head, apparently made of a strip of muslin, intricately woven.

A magic flower.

The hammering had stopped and footsteps now approached. Rhona ducked out of the bedroom and made for the back door, just as Mike appeared. They faced one another for a moment, before Rhona said,
‘I saw the note about the toilet. Thank you.’

‘No problem.’

His eyes darted from her to the bedroom door and back again.

‘I’m just off to have lunch on the beach,’ Rhona said to cover the moment. ‘How’s the renovation going?’

‘Okay.’

She opened the back door, keen now to make her exit.

‘I won’t be long. I plan to make the most of the light.’

She didn’t wait for a response. Once outside, she retrieved her sandwiches and flask and immediately set off to find a place with a decent view of the island.

Eventually she chose a sheltered spot and began her lunch, while contemplating what had just happened at the schoolhouse. She hadn’t seen Mike’s young visitor properly, but it now
occurred to her that the girl may in fact have been his model for the drawing. If that were the case, could it explain his reticence in mentioning her visit?

Two sandwiches and a cup of coffee later, Rhona was none the wiser. She could of course ask Mike, but that would expose the fact that she’d been in his bedroom, not something she wanted to
admit.

She abandoned her seat on the sand dune and walked a little further, training her binoculars on the causeway. Derek had indicated that it was easier to cross on the western flank where it was
sandy underfoot, and true enough the seaweed-covered rocks that jutted out of the water to her right looked tricky to negotiate.

The shell beach apparently lay on the eastern side of Start Island, although it wasn’t visible from here. Provided all went well today, she would wade across at low tide tomorrow.
She’d said as much to Derek on their way back from the airfield.

‘Just make sure you pay attention to the time,’ had been his response.

Glancing at her watch, Rhona estimated she had an hour before the light was too poor to continue. Enough time, she hoped, to finish. She’d excavated more than two-thirds
of the grave floor when she unearthed the object.

Twenty-five centimetres in length, with a cork handle, the blade was rounded, with a row of seven small holes lining the blunt side, finishing with a larger hole at the top. It was definitely a
knife, a specialized model. But for what?

She fetched her forensic case. The discoloration on the blade could simply be rust, but a presumptive test would indicate whether that was the case or not. Rhona folded a piece of absorbent
paper in half, then half again to make a point, and scraped it across the stain.

As she did so, a fly entered the tent, made for the knife and immediately settled on the blade, suggesting her belief that it was dried blood was correct, even before she tested.

A brief examination of the bones as she’d bagged them hadn’t found any surface damage. The hyoid bone had been intact, which suggested that the victim hadn’t been strangled.
The knife, buried with the victim, might well have been the murder weapon.

Rhona switched on the arc light and settled down to write up her notes. The satisfaction at completing the excavation was tinged with sadness at what had been unearthed here. Discovering a
Neolithic or Viking grave would have proved fascinating and illuminating. The death, even if violent, would have been far enough removed in time not to affect the community.

This grave was something different.

‘It looks like a pilot’s knife,’ Derek said, holding up the bag to the light. ‘Carried in the boots of aircrew to cut their parachute lines.’ He
peered more closely through the plastic. ‘It should have an RAF Stores serial number on it somewhere.’

‘So we might be able to trace who it belonged to?’ Rhona said.

‘Maybe, but it’s a remote possibility. The knives were also issued with the larger multi-man survival dinghies. The rounded end was to prevent puncturing the dinghy. The handle was
buoyant and –’ he pointed at the larger hole – ‘a lanyard attached here made sure it wouldn’t be lost overboard.’ Derek looked at her. ‘I take it this was
in the grave?’

She nodded.

‘I suggest you check what I’ve said with Sam. He might even have a photograph to compare it to. I expect there were a few of these at the Lopness camp.’

Rhona had suspected as much.

‘You think that was the murder weapon?’ Derek said.

‘It’s a possibility.’

‘So what happens now?’ he asked.

‘I head back to the forensic lab and process all the material.’

‘And DS McNab?’

‘That’s up to him, and of course DI Flett.’

The police launch had brought him over at midday, dropping him at Loth terminal. From there he’d caught the community bus to Heilsa Fjold, rather than have PC Tulloch
come and collect him. The bus was a good way to catch up with what was happening on the island and, in this instance, what folk thought of the discovery up at Lopness.