None but the Dead (18 page)

‘Possibly, although he’s been drawing her, along with the flower he found in the loft.’ Rhona explained how she’d happened on the painting. ‘He definitely
didn’t like me knowing she’d been there,’ she added.

‘I got the impression he didn’t like the idea of kids hanging around the place,’ McNab said.

Erling looked uneasy. ‘We have no reason to suspect Mike Jones of anything untoward. He’s cooperated with us fully up till now,’ he reminded them.

Sam stepped away as movement within suggested the meeting was coming to an end. Despite his best intentions he’d been drawn to the door when he heard Inga’s name.
Then he’d heard them mention the magic flower.

I warned him to put that back where he found it, and he promised he would.

The terrible sense of doom was back. Sam felt it wash over him like a powerful wave, fear in its wake. Fear for the child.

You’re being stupid. Inga has no connection with the past. It’s the secrets of the past that we have to worry about.

A dense mist had descended while they were in the heritage centre. Even the car, parked yards away, had been swallowed by it. Unlike a city fog, Rhona tasted salt rather than
exhaust fumes on her lips. In the field across the road, the white shapes of sheep grazed like ghostly apparitions.

When Erling spoke, his voice sounded muffled. ‘Who wants dropped off first?’

Rhona looked to McNab. ‘You’re the closest.’

‘Why don’t you eat at the hotel tonight?’

Erling came in then. ‘It’s your last night, and there’s live music on. You can watch Sanday folk enjoying themselves.’

‘Are you headed back to Kirkwall?’ Rhona said.

‘I plan to catch the last ferry.’ The signpost for the school loomed out of the midst. ‘I’ll pick up PC Tulloch, drop you two off at Kettletoft, then he can take me to
the ferry.’

They lapsed into silence after that. Darkness had descended both outside the vehicle and in. Rhona was seated in the back behind McNab and recognized by the set of his shoulders how deep in
thought he was. They hadn’t had a proper conversation since he’d arrived and eating at the hotel would remedy that.

If that was all that happened.

They’d been skirting round one another since the witchcraft case. She’d been delighted when he and Freya Devine had become an item. He had seemed so happy at first.

But not any more.

She and McNab went back a long way. They had history, none of which Rhona regretted, but she had no desire to rekindle the past.

I have with Sean, more than once
.

That thought sent her to check her mobile, but there was no signal. A visit to the hotel, McNab had assured her, would remedy that. One of the things she’d enjoyed about her stay on Sanday
was being offline. The constant interruptions, the need to check, had dissipated. The outer world seemed both far away and unimportant.

The journey between the community centre and the hotel complete, PC Tulloch dropped them out front, promising to be back later.

‘You fancy a drink?’ McNab said.

When she raised an eyebrow, he laughed. ‘I’m on the beer, not the whisky, Dr MacLeod.’

Rhona followed McNab inside where he led her, not to the bar, but into a kitchen where a young man greeted them. McNab introduced him as Tor and expressed an opinion that he was a very good
cook.

‘Is there enough for Dr MacLeod?’

‘There’s plenty. An Orkney roast with all the trimmings?’

‘Sounds perfect,’ Rhona said.

‘If you want to go to the bar and help yourself to a drink, I’ll bring the food through,’ Tor offered.

The bar was empty. Rhona headed for a table at the window. Peering out, she could see a narrow passageway bordered by a waist-high flagstone wall. To the right, the harbour wall tailed off in
the mist, just one boat’s mast visible.

McNab arrived back with a pint and a large glass of white wine.

‘You’re not fond of red, as I recall?’ he said as he set the wine down in front of her.

‘Sean’s working on my palate,’ she told him, then laughed at McNab’s expression. ‘Don’t say anything,’ she warned him.

‘As if.’

‘How are things with Freya?’ Rhona strove to change the subject.

‘I’m pretty sure she prefers the cat to me.’ McNab took a slug of his pint.

The meal arrived then, carried aloft by Tor. When he placed the heaped plates on the table, Rhona gave a gasp.

‘I could have served what we call our small portions, but DS McNab said he preferred the
normal
-size plate,’ Tor explained.

They settled down to eat, foregoing further conversation. As they did so, the place began to fill up. Seated at the window, looking into the room, Rhona took a keen interest in who was coming
in. A mix of ages, more males than females, with a distinct mixture of accents. Had she to guess what the make-up of the population on Sanday was, she’d have plumped for equal numbers of
locals and incomers, the incomers for the most part coming from south of the border.

There were lots of curious glances coming her way too. Having been marooned in the north of the island, her only contact had been the immediate team and Mike Jones. Now she was viewed here with
the Glasgow detective, her part in the investigation would be apparent.

The band had arrived and were setting up at the other end of the room – a couple of mike stands and a set of speakers. One of the singers was a young woman.

‘No karaoke machine,’ she told McNab.

‘Thank God for that,’ he said with obvious relief. Glancing round, he indicated the young woman. ‘That’s Hege from the community centre.’

Rhona shot McNab a look.

‘What?’ he said in exaggerated innocence.

Ten minutes later, despite the size of the portion she’d been served, Rhona had cleared her plate.

‘That was a Chrissy-sized meal,’ she said.

‘Have you heard from her?’

‘She was planning to deposit everything at the lab, then head home, to see her wee one.’

Rhona congratulated Tor on the food as he removed the plates, then checked her mobile. As McNab had suggested, there was a reasonable signal near the window, probably even better outside on the
walkway.

A flurry of messages downloaded. She skimmed through them, conscious that most would have to wait until tomorrow when she would be back in Glasgow. Chrissy’s message she opened to confirm
what she’d already told McNab.

‘Aren’t you going to check yours?’ she said as McNab indicated that he was off to replenish their glasses.

‘It can wait,’ he said. ‘I’m home tomorrow anyway.’

Rhona settled back as the music started up – a mix of traditional and country and western seemed to be on offer, which suited her fine. It was certainly a change from The Jazz Club, which
was their usual haunt after work in Glasgow.

Sensing someone’s gaze, Rhona looked up to find a man at the bar studying her intently. It was a face she hadn’t seen before, although there was something about it that seemed
familiar. He was dark-haired, with a short beard. Dressed in oilskins, she took him to be a fisherman. His eyes in the tanned face were a marked blue.

For a moment she thought he intended coming over, then McNab reappeared with the drinks.

‘What’s up?’ he said, swivelling round to see where her gaze had been. ‘I think you’ve got an admirer,’ he ventured. ‘I could sit elsewhere. I
don’t want to cramp your style.’

Rhona ignored the innuendo. ‘Have you interviewed him?’

‘Never seen him before.’

‘He seems familiar.’

‘You just like guys with black hair and blue eyes. Wonder if he plays the saxophone?’ McNab said.

Rhona smiled, knowing he was referring to the man’s likeness to Sean.

‘I get the impression he’s not the only one watching us,’ she said.

‘Yeah, it’s like a scene from
The Wicker Man
.’

‘You’ve been listening to Chrissy,’ she accused him.

At that moment the door opened and Mike Jones walked in. It took moments for the atmosphere in the bar to change. McNab cottoned on to it immediately as the crowd parted to let Mike reach the
bar.

‘Maybe you weren’t the only one who received a letter about Mr Jones,’ Rhona said.

A series of eyes were now observing McNab as though expecting him to say or do something. What, Rhona had no idea.

‘What the fuck!’ McNab said under his breath.

Mike Jones was attempting to order a drink, but Tor appeared too busy to serve him.

‘They’re blanking him,’ Rhona said.

While Mike hesitated, unsure quite what to do, Rhona rose and headed for the bar.

‘Hi, Mike, can I buy you a drink?’

His relief at her sudden appearance was obvious.

‘A pint of lager shandy, thank you.’

‘Tor, can you pour this man a drink and put it on DS McNab’s tab, please?’

Tor was at a loss for a moment, then did the decent thing and poured the pint. Beside him, the dark-haired man looked stonily on.

‘You have a problem?’ Rhona said.

He met her challenging look. ‘I do.’

‘And that is?’

‘I don’t like paedos being served in my pub.’

The interchange had reached those around them, who’d fallen ominously silent.

The colour drained from Mike’s face as McNab, sensing a fight, appeared alongside Rhona.

‘Take a seat, Mike. You too, Rhona.’

Rhona did as asked, more for Mike’s sake than to let McNab fight her battles.

From the table by the window she watched the two men square up. McNab’s comfort zone was an East End pub, where he would take on anyone. Here was a different matter. There were rules
wherever you went, and they were always different.

Just then the door opened and Ivan walked in. Rhona could have sworn she heard a collective sigh of relief from the assembled company. He immediately read the situation and headed for the
contretemps, where he gave the dark-haired man a friendly slap on the back and called McNab ‘sir’, while mentioning DI Flett in the process.

The tension in the room visibly lessened. Tor waved at the band to start playing again. Only then did Rhona realize that they’d fallen silent. Beside her, Mike reached for his drink with a
shaking hand.

‘In Scotland, we call that a stushie,’ Rhona said, trying to make light of the situation.

It didn’t work. Mike took a long draught of his pint.

‘He called me a paedo.’ He looked sick at the thought.

Rhona wasn’t sure what to say.

‘It’s a common term of insult these days,’ she tried.

She thought for a moment he was about to cry.

‘PC Tulloch sent him packing,’ she said. Her news didn’t bring any colour back into the man’s cheeks.

McNab appeared to take a seat beside them, adrenaline beating the pulse in his neck.

This is the most fun he’s had since he got here.

‘Who was that?’ she asked Ivan, who’d taken the seat beside her.

‘He’s working on one of the fishing boats, but he’s not from Sanday.’

McNab turned to Mike Jones. ‘He called you a paedo. Why do you think he did that?’

‘It was a mistake. I made a mistake, that’s all.’ Mike stared straight ahead, as though trying to convince himself of that.

Once Ivan, Rhona and the paedo had left, McNab ordered a double whisky, drank it down in one and took himself outside. For the first time in months he felt in need of a
cigarette. Even as he thought of one, he could taste it in his mouth and feel the heat in his lungs and the nicotine hitting his bloodstream.

He also felt slightly nauseated at the story they’d just been told.

The excuses of the sad bastard.

The fog was just as thick, with no wind in evidence, as he headed round the back. The waist-high wall was built like all the others he’d seen as he’d travelled the island –
flagstones, carefully laid one on top of the other. At the far end, an old plough stood atop the wall, rusted red. The tide was in, slurping and sucking at the main sea wall below, seaweed trailing
the water like a tentacled monster.

What was the point in standing out here when he had no cigarettes? He should go back inside and straight upstairs. And yet . . .

The whisky had hit his bloodstream, making him crave more. If he didn’t go straight to bed after this, his long spell of abstinence was in serious danger of coming to an end.

His secret desire, which only now did McNab admit to, had been to coax Rhona MacLeod back into his bed tonight – a forlorn hope.

I’m a sad bastard too.

He was used to Glasgow fogs, although since the city had been smoke free, they didn’t taste the same, or so he’d been told. Car fumes now, rather than coal dust. Whatever its
make-up, a Glasgow fog didn’t freak him the way that this mist did.

He suddenly recalled an old horror movie he’d watched about a little Oregon seaside town. Isolated in an old lighthouse, doing a late-night radio show, the presenter had watched a fog roll
in below, bringing evil with it.

I’d rather have the wind.

He could still taste the whisky on his tongue. A Highland Park, Magnus Pirie’s favourite. He might order another and take it up with him. Once back on his home turf, the craving would
ease, he assured himself. He’d get back into his routine. The press-ups, the cold showers, the sex.

If Freya will have me.

The story he’d just heard from Mike Jones presented itself once again, despite his best efforts to forget it. Still, the guy had come clean before they’d found him on the sex
offenders’ register. According to him, it hadn’t been kiddie fiddling, just an affair with one of his fifteen-year-old pupils. Fifteen, sixteen, who could tell the difference? McNab
swore under his breath. Who was he to judge after Iona?

She wasn’t fifteen.

But she might have been. He’d never checked. Just celebrated his promotion to DI with a pretty nineteen-year-old who’d thrown herself at him, after Dr MacLeod had turned him
down.

Thinking back to then, he could of course blame the booze. Another reason why he should lay off the whisky.

An image of Inga Sinclair suddenly presented itself, the earnest wee face telling him how she and her gang would find the skull, and he found himself deeply troubled by the thought of the girl
visiting the schoolhouse. Even more so by the idea that Mike Jones had been sketching her. When challenged on that, he’d vehemently denied it. Apparently he’d just drawn a girl’s
face that turned out to look like Inga.