None but the Dead (21 page)

If she didn’t know, he could display the photograph at the museum and ask if anyone could identify the children. If that didn’t work he would send a copy to the library in Kirkwall
for their archives and see if anyone from further afield might throw light on where and when it had been taken, and the names of the pupils in it.

Pleased with his discovery, Sam tidied the box away and noted the time.

The child is usually here by now.

He went to the door and looked out but couldn’t see her house through the mist.

I’ll go there. Show Inga and her mum the picture from the newspaper. See if she wants to come to the museum with me.

Sam banked up the fire and headed out.

‘The creepy bastard. I knew he wasn’t telling us the whole story.’

‘He spoke to you about it, Sergeant?’

‘Last night in the hotel bar after someone called him a paedo,’ McNab said.

There was a moment’s silence as DI Flett absorbed this.

‘The kid Inga Sinclair’s been at his house,’ McNab said. ‘Rhona saw a drawing he’d done of her.’

Concern travelled the distance between them.

‘The girl involved was just short of her sixteenth birthday,’ DI Flett said. ‘She wasn’t twelve.’

‘Who the fuck cares? She’s dead, isn’t she?’

‘He didn’t kill her.’

‘But she died.’

‘Apparently the girl was troubled by bullying at school.’

‘And Mr Jones her Art teacher took pity on her. Thought if he painted her portrait and had sex with her it would help.’

DI Flett had had enough of his tone and told him so, which only served to remind McNab that he was no longer a DI himself.

‘Sorry, sir,’ he said with just enough forced humility to make matters worse.

‘When are you heading back to Glasgow, Sergeant?’

At that moment he realized that DI Flett had no idea what had happened to him. McNab almost licked his lips in anticipation.

‘I don’t think I can leave now, sir.’

A pause.

‘Why?’

‘Because last night someone tried to kill me.’

Being interrogated by a superior officer over the phone was, he decided, much more fun than face to face. DI Wilson would, of course, have demolished him by now, either way. DI Erling Flett,
McNab thought, was too nice, or he wasn’t sure of his ground.

‘I believe,’ McNab ended by saying, ‘that the attempt to silence me has something to do with the remains we found.’ He wasn’t certain that was true, but it was a
sure-fire way of keeping him here.

There was a considered moment before DI Flett said, ‘Speak to the girl’s mother about her visit to the schoolhouse. We don’t know how much about the Jones case is common
knowledge on Sanday, so keep it low key.’

McNab rang off then, thinking if he’d learned anything since he’d landed on this island, it was that news travelled fast.

He poured another cup of coffee before phoning PC Tulloch to ask where the hell he was.

‘I tried to call you, sir, but your phone was engaged.’ The constable sounded fraught. ‘Something’s happened, sir.’

‘What?’ McNab said.

‘Inga Sinclair’s gone missing.’

The child had left home around nine thirty, telling her mother she was going to Sam Flett’s and would be at the heritage centre with him most of the day. Sam had arrived
at the Sinclair house at eleven wondering where Inga was. The track between the two houses had been searched as had the neighbouring beach. There had been no sign of Inga. The little gang of
children had been contacted. All agreed that there had been no arrangement between them to meet. Inga usually went to the museum with Mr Flett on Saturdays.

Inga’s mother was distraught. Sam Flett even worse. When McNab had questioned why, the old man said he’d feared something bad would happen to the girl ever since the flowers in the
attic had been disturbed. At that point McNab thought the pensioner had lost it, and stopped listening.

Rhona was nowhere to be found either. Calls to her mobile went unanswered. Her last remark to McNab had been that she had some forensic work to do before catching the late-afternoon ferry to
Kirkwall. What work she’d referred to and where, McNab had no idea. The Ranger, Derek Muir, appeared to be off the radar too, so chances were he was accompanying Rhona.

McNab ordered PC Tulloch to organize as many locals as he could muster for a search party in the few remaining hours of daylight they had left. He then indicated that he was heading to the
schoolhouse.

‘Sir, maybe it would be better—’

McNab’s expression froze the words in Tulloch’s mouth.

‘Call DI Flett. Tell him what’s happening,’ McNab ordered. ‘You use the vehicle to rally the troops. I’ll walk.’

It was a short but winding road from the Sinclair house to the old school. McNab reckoned he could walk it in ten minutes if he left the road and went cross-country, although he didn’t
fancy meeting any of the local livestock, less keen on them than drunks on a Friday night in Sauchiehall Street.

Glasgow livestock I can manage.

The mist seemed reluctant to disperse, despite a movement of air that couldn’t yet be called a breeze. It was hard to believe he was in the same place where a gale had been lifting the
roof only the other night.

The first three fields proved empty; the fourth had a herd of cattle that decided to check out the human emerging from the mist. McNab made for the wall at this point and climbed over onto the
road.

The schoolhouse lay ahead, a couple of lights on, although it was only midday.

McNab realized that he disliked this room, almost as much as he disliked the man who stood facing him.

A rattled Mike Jones had professed to knowing nothing about Inga’s disappearance, insisting that he’d woken early and immediately gone to work on his extension.

‘So she didn’t come knocking at your door this morning?’ McNab said.

‘No.’ Mike Jones flung his head from side to side to emphasize the fact.

‘According to police records, the last girl whose portrait you painted hung herself. Something you forgot to mention last night.’

Jones looked like a man who’d just taken a punch and was reeling from it. He reached for the table to steady himself, shaking his head as though he didn’t want to think about it.

‘And now you’re drawing Inga,’ McNab said in an accusing tone.

‘I didn’t draw Inga.’ Jones was desperate now, his face devoid of all colour except for under his eyes, which were a dark shadowed grey.

McNab wasn’t listening. He was already on his way to the bedroom with Mike Jones stumbling behind him, a look of horror on his face.

‘You can’t invade my home,’ he tried. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’

McNab threw open the door, hoping what Rhona had professed to find was still there. He approached the easel and threw back the sheet.

He heard Jones gasp behind him. McNab almost gasped himself, because the likeness was so extraordinary.

‘How the fuck could you do
that
if you’d never seen Inga before?’

Jones was attempting to pull himself together. McNab could almost hear him saying the mantra,
Stay calm. They can’t prove anything.

‘I drew the face I imagined when I looked at that magic flower.’ He indicated the small painting that stood alongside. ‘When I opened the back door and she was standing there,
I was sick in the sink. I couldn’t believe she existed.’

‘Who are you trying to kid?’ McNab said in disbelief. ‘You persuaded a girl of twelve to have her portrait done. Is that all you persuaded her to do?’

Mike Jones was crying now, small, almost silent sobs. He sank down on the bed.

‘I didn’t do anything wrong.’

‘Are we talking about the fifteen-year-old or the twelve-year-old?’

‘Neither of them.’ Jones stood up, making an attempt to gather himself together. ‘I’d like you to leave now.’

‘After I check the house for Inga,’ McNab said.

‘She isn’t here.’

‘Then you won’t mind me looking.’

In truth, there weren’t many rooms to search. The renovated section was open plan apart from the bedroom. The area yet to be converted was empty of anything except a ladder and some
tools.

McNab glanced upwards.

‘I’d like to take a look in the loft.’

Jones’s face, which had assumed some colour, lost it again.

‘I don’t think . . .’

McNab dragged the stepladder over, and climbing up, eased open the hatch. He spotted a bulb fitted to a beam and, feeling around for a light switch, flicked it on. The loft looked empty, but he
wanted to be sure.

Pulling himself up and onto the narrow wooden walkway that ran between the beams, half stooping, he eased his way along, checking each gap in turn. There was nothing stored here, or if there had
been, Jones had cleared it.

A layer of what looked like ash lay between the rafters, he assumed as an attempt at insulation. Spotting one of the infamous flowers he’d heard so much about, McNab crouched for a closer
look. Lying partly buried in the ash and of a similar grey colour, it wasn’t obvious at first.

As McNab reached for it, Jones’s voice came to him from the open hatch.

‘Please don’t touch it,’ he pleaded to no avail.

McNab cupped it in his palm and examined the intricately woven shape. The material felt stiff to the touch, brittle almost, but despite its obvious age and condition, it did resemble the petals
of a flower. He laid it back down, then went in search of the rest.

There were twelve of them as he’d been told, and a gap where one had been, signified by a small empty grave in the ash.

McNab moved back towards the hatch and dropped down onto the ladder. As he emerged, he found Jones’s troubled face staring up at him.

‘You didn’t remove any of them?’

McNab ignored the question and signalled that it was time to leave.

‘We’ll be organizing a search party for Inga. You could join in.’

Mike Jones looked terrified at the thought.

‘Then again, maybe it’s not a good idea now that your cover’s blown.’

Exiting by the back door, McNab noted that the tarp had gone and the grave now stood open to the elements. Rhona had obviously been here, but where the hell was she now?

The car came towards him as he made his way back along the tarred road. The face that looked out seemed to have aged ten years. PC Tulloch was no longer the cheery-faced bloke
he’d met at the onset. McNab had grown pissed off at Tulloch’s eternal good humour. Now he wanted it back. Pronto.

He climbed into the passenger seat and awaited news of the child’s death.

‘I’ve rounded up about thirty folk,’ Tulloch said.

She’s alive.

‘Do you know how to organize a search?’

‘I’ve done it on the mainland before, but it wasn’t a child we were looking for.’

Relief sweeping over him, McNab was about to joke about a missing sheep, but managed to stop his tongue.

‘We need more officers.’

‘The police launch is on its way from Kirkwall,’ Tulloch said.

However many they managed to squeeze on the launch, it wouldn’t be enough. McNab said as much.

‘Locals know the terrain,’ Tulloch said. ‘Even in poor light.’

McNab suddenly realized the mist had gone and he could see the field on one side of the car, the beach on the other. He glanced upwards to discover a leaden sky.

‘It’s going to rain,’ Tulloch said.

‘Rain and gales. Gales and rain. Sanday weather.’

Even as McNab spoke the first heavy drops hit the windscreen, propelled by a northerly gust.

McNab had been involved in searches before. Folk strung out across the landscape in all weathers, men, women, old and young, determined to help. Nine times out of ten, by the time the search
took place, the missing person was already dead. If it was a child, that was almost a certainty.

She was running as the deluge hit. The early mist had dissipated. Now the sky had become a cauldron of grey and black seething clouds fighting one another in their efforts to
drop their load on Sanday. A wind from the north had come to their aid, biting through her jacket. She’d abandoned attempts at keeping her hood up, and her hair was soaked already.

Rhona stumbled as the ground rose swiftly through a tumble of loose slates. Screaming gulls, riding the wind, swooped down on her, as though forbidding her passage. Scrambling up the slope, she
finally dropped into the hole that fronted the mound.

Pressing herself against the stones, she waited and watched as the thundering clouds fought their way across the causeway to the main island. A shaft of watery light broke through to illuminate
the rain sheet where it now descended on the area surrounding the cottage and schoolhouse.

As the rain eased, Rhona emerged from under her rock for a better look.

On the outside, she estimated the mound to be around twenty-two metres wide and four metres high. Inside, according to her research, there was a circular chamber eight metres wide by one and a
half metres high – the space lighthouse keepers had once used as a potato store. The entrance tunnel had collapsed in part, a jumble of smaller stones blocking it, although the larger slabs
that framed it were still upright.

As Rhona crouched to peer between the rubble, she noted that someone else had been there not long ago. The grass was trampled and the clear marks of boots bigger than her own were visible.
Directing her forensic torch through, hoping to catch a glimpse of the tunnel beyond, she saw to her surprise that there was an open area beyond the blockage. Excited by the thought that someone
had broken through recently, Rhona began to work at the pile of rubble. Fifteen minutes later, she had a space big enough to peer in.

Her torch beam found its way through the passage to illuminate what looked like an entrance to the inner chamber. It too appeared partially blocked. Rhona checked her watch. She would have to go
soon, and yet if she moved a few more stones, she might squeeze through and view the inner chamber.

Ten minutes later she was on her knees, between the upright slabs, approaching the tunnel’s end. In here there wasn’t a whisper of sound. It was as though the howling wind and the
crashing waves no longer existed.