None but the Dead (32 page)

Except that she didn’t feel she could. Not yet anyway. Which is what she told Chrissy.

‘When I heard about Mike Jones, I guessed as much.’

‘Any word on Sam Flett’s post-mortem?’ Rhona said.

‘There’s a report winging its way to you, but in a nutshell, he drowned.’

‘The head injury?’

‘The pathologist found rock and seaweed fragments in the wound.’

‘But the blow didn’t kill him?’

‘No. The water did. With no evidence to the contrary, the conclusion was he lost his footing, banged his head and drowned.’ Chrissy was quiet for a moment. ‘I do have some good
news, however. I assume you’re currently online?’

‘I am.’

‘Then take a look at what they’ve fashioned from the photograph you sent of the skull.’

Rhona waited impatiently as the email attachment downloaded.

‘Is it there?’ Chrissy said.

‘It is.’ Rhona clicked it open.

She found it difficult to conjure up the image of a human face from the bare bones of a skull. Thankfully it hadn’t been a problem for the digital artist who, with imagination and skill,
had created this.

‘What do you think?’ Chrissy’s voice expressed her own excitement.

‘It’s very good,’ Rhona said.

‘Will someone recognize it?’

‘Someone already has.’

Magnus looked from the old photograph to the reconstructed face on the screen and back again.

‘The likeness is strong,’ he finally admitted.

‘But?’ she prodded.

‘But if we desire something enough, we can often convince ourselves that it’s true.’

‘I don’t
want
it to be her,’ Rhona countered.

‘Maybe not, but it might offer some explanation for Sam’s fear for Inga.’

‘It doesn’t help us find the child.’

‘No,’ Magnus said, his expression one of deep thought.

‘But if Inga’s great-aunt did go missing during the war, surely her mother would have known about it from her grandfather?’

‘Do you know everything about the generations that came before you?’ he countered.

Rhona was aware that she was adopted and that her birth mother had been the woman she’d called Aunt Lily, her adopted mother’s sister. She even knew that her biological father had
been called Robert Curtis. But further back than that, no. She had no idea.

‘In those times,’ Magnus reminded her, ‘folk didn’t discuss family business with their children. Or with anyone else for that matter.’

‘So there’s no one left alive now on Sanday to confirm the identity of the victim.’

‘There’s Don Cutts,’ he reminded her. ‘You were planning to show him the reconstruction, if only to confirm it isn’t the Beth Haddow he spoke of.’

Rhona nodded. They would ask the old man to come in. Show him the reconstructed image.

There was another way to confirm if the body in the grave was a member of the Sinclair family, and that was to test their DNA. The same was true of the relationship between Sam and Jamie Drever.
Although it hardly seemed important now that Sam was dead.

‘I wondered if Sam suspected and looked for Jamie Drever. I thought he might have been the one to interrogate Jock,’ she admitted.

‘But he never left the island?’

‘Apparently not.’

‘And Derek Muir did.’

Rhona nodded.

‘So what, if anything, was the connection between Derek Muir and Jamie Drever?’

‘I have an aunt in Glasgow. I visit her twice a year.’

The Ranger looked relaxed and not remotely put out by McNab’s opening question.

‘Where does your aunt live?’

Derek Muir gave an address McNab recognized as being in the East End, not far from Jock Drever’s place.

‘You can check with her if you like, although her memory’s not so good these days. She has Alzheimer’s.’

‘Did you speak to anyone else on your travels?’ McNab said.

‘I don’t know anyone else in Glasgow, so no.’

‘Not even Jamie Drever?’

That brought him up short. The Ranger observed McNab, a puzzled expression on his face. ‘Jamie Drever? Is that the man you spoke about when you arrived? Wasn’t he called
Jock?’

‘We’re all Jocks in the army.’

‘You have experience of army life, Sergeant? I didn’t realize.’

McNab ignored what he regarded as an obvious deflection. ‘You were seen in the vicinity of Jock’s flat, just before he died.’

The Ranger looked puzzled. ‘If he lives near my aunt, then I suppose that’s possible.’

‘Why did your family leave Sanday?’

The sudden shift in topic seemed to catch Muir off guard and for a moment he didn’t appear so sure of his ground. Then he came back. ‘My father got a job in Peterhead.
Why?’

‘Doing what?’

‘Same as before. On a fishing boat.’

‘But you spent your childhood in Glasgow?’

He looked nonplussed at that, then shrugged. ‘It was a long time ago, Sergeant. My parents parted company, that’s all I know.’

‘Where’s your father now?’

A shadow crossed his face. ‘He’s dead.’

‘You’re sure of that?’

‘I have the death certificate to prove it.’

McNab sat back in his chair. ‘So now that Jock’s gone, there’s no one left to tell the tale.’

‘What tale?’ The Ranger fashioned a look of bewilderment.

‘Why the girl buried in the schoolhouse grounds died.’

There was a knock at the door. McNab checked his watch, then called, ‘Come in.’

Don Cutts, it seemed, was a stickler for timing. The door opened and the wheelchair entered.

The two Sanday men exchanged surprised looks.

‘Ranger?’

Muir collected himself and smiled at the old man. ‘Don. How are you?’

‘Good.’

‘I take it you’re helping the police with their enquiries?’ Muir said, with a twinkle in his eye that annoyed McNab.

‘I just gave my DNA sample,’ Cutts said, full of self-importance. He looked from Muir to McNab. ‘So, Detective Sergeant. I believe you have something you want me to take a look
at?’

‘I have.’ McNab turned the laptop round so they could both view the screen. ‘This is an image of the young woman in the schoolhouse grave.’

Whatever either man was expecting, it wasn’t this.

‘How did you do that without the skull?’ the old man said, impressed.

McNab smiled. ‘Don’t you just love forensic science.’

Muir said nothing, but his eyes were immediately drawn to the screen. McNab watched as both faces assimilated the image. It wasn’t a photograph, but it was real enough. Don Cutts muttered
something under his breath. A phrase McNab couldn’t interpret. Muir’s expression never changed and he remained silent.

The old man eventually spoke. ‘That’s not Beth Haddow, although it does look a peedie bit like her.’ He continued to peer more at the screen.

‘Have you any idea who it might be?’

McNab watched as a thought took root and grew. Eventually the old man turned to him, and now McNab could see how distressed he had become.

‘It might be Ola Sinclair.’ He shook his head in dismay. ‘God, is that what happened to the lass? We heard she’d gone to work on the mainland.’

‘Tell me what you remember about her.’

It took a few moments for Cutts to muster himself.

‘The women like Beth Haddow, who came with the forces, were,’ he hesitated, ‘more available, so to speak, than island women. Ola kept herself to herself, although I did see her
at the camp dances occasionally.’

‘Can you remember who may have been interested in Ola back then?’

‘Just about everyone, I’d say. She was a bonny lass.’ A thought crossed his face. One that obviously disturbed him. ‘I did see her once or twice with Eric Flett, but I
didn’t think it was serious. I thought Eric was keen on Beth Haddow, but it’s so long ago, Sergeant. I’m not sure if what I remember is even true.’ He shook his head.

‘What about the other man you mentioned. The older one?’

McNab watched as Don Cutts probed his memories of seventy years ago.

‘The truth is, that guy hung about all the women. And for the most part, they liked it. I told you I wanted to know what it was about him that made them so keen.’

‘Describe him for me.’

‘But I did that already,’ the old man said, puzzled.

‘Do it again.’

As Don repeated his description, McNab watched the Ranger. Muir’s face remained impassive, but the emotion in his eyes couldn’t be blanked.

It was strange how a dam was breached, the wall of lies swept away, the truth cascading out like a flood. In the job, McNab had seen it happen many times, with good and with
bad people. With a truly evil person, it might never happen. A natural-born killer, from McNab’s experience, nursed a belief in their divine right to do whatever was necessary for their own
self-gratification, or survival.

Derek Muir, in his opinion, was not such a person.

After the revelation of the image and his story, Don Cutts had departed, none the wiser as to why the Ranger had been present during the discussion. So much a part of island life, McNab realized
that Muir’s presence was natural and acceptable anywhere, at any time.

McNab waited until the door shut behind Cutts, before asking, ‘Was the man Mr Cutts described your father?’

Derek Muir said nothing, his expression as closed as before. McNab wondered if that particular look had been fashioned in childhood, as a means of protection. Sam Flett had drawn a picture of
Derek Muir as a troubled youngster, hardened by city life. He’d brought that toughness back with him, making his return to the island difficult. But Muir had succeeded in making himself an
islander again. He’d been accepted back into the community. Built a reputation. Become a valued member of the community, of the stature of Sam Flett.

Then the body was unearthed
. . .

‘When did you know?’ McNab said quietly.

Derek Muir’s eyes finally met his and McNab viewed the agony behind the stony countenance.

‘That my father was a murderer?’ His voice shook with emotion.

‘You know that for certain?’

Muir shook his head. ‘No, but I suspect it, as do you, and no doubt once she examines all the forensic evidence, your Dr MacLeod will prove it.’

His face, although still impassive, had turned a sickly grey colour.

‘We’re not responsible for the sins of our fathers,’ McNab found himself saying.

Muir gave him a small but pitying smile. ‘You think so, Detective Sergeant? And what if your father was exposed as a murderer? How would that sit with your job as a detective? How would it
sit with you as his son?’

McNab didn’t answer the question, knowing full well that it would fuck up his job. As it would fuck with him too.

They sat in silence for a moment, although McNab sensed that now the dam had burst, Muir was keen to reveal everything.

‘How did you find Jock Drever?’ he said.

‘My aunt told me, in one of her moments of clarity, that she’d seen him near her place. I already knew my father had been a violent man, and that my mother had found out something
he’d done that had frightened her enough to make her leave Sanday. I didn’t want to dig around here for the answer, so I went looking for Jock to ask him.’

‘What happened?’

Muir had been waiting for that question and immediately answered. ‘He refused to discuss anything about Sanday back then. I suspected he was keeping something from me, so I . . .
persisted.’ He looked stricken by the admission. ‘I know now he was keeping quiet to protect Ella, and of course Sam, but I was desperate to find out the truth . . .’ There he
halted.

‘You tied him up?’

He nodded. ‘But I didn’t hit him. Nothing like that. Eventually, he asked about Ella and his son. I told him Ella was dead but that Sam was alive and well . . .’ He
hesitated.

McNab, recognizing there was more to come, kept silent.

‘Then the body was unearthed.’ Muir glanced at McNab. ‘I knew right away that the fearful ramblings of my aunt were true.’ His voice broke. ‘Was it my fault Jamie
Drever died?’

‘You untied him?’ McNab said.

‘Yes. And gave him water. He asked me to turn on the fire. He said he was cold. What happened after that?’

‘He died in the chair. Dehydration probably.’

A terrible silence followed.

Muir turned stricken eyes on him. ‘Then I’m a killer. Just like my father.’

McNab asked one final question.

‘Why are you so sure your father killed Ola Sinclair?’

‘Once my father decided he wanted something, he would never be denied it.’

McNab understood the sentiment. He didn’t relish being denied either. And he never gave up. Did that make him bad? Or capable of murder?

If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well
.

Those had been his mother’s constant words to him. Though McNab wasn’t certain he’d always followed her instructions the way she’d intended. Determined, against the odds,
to complete a job? Yes, he’d done that. It was the way he’d done it that could be called into question.

I’ve been on my best behaviour up here on Sanday Island. I’ve attempted to be civil to the locals. I haven’t come on to Rhona, even when the opportunity presented
itself
.

But he’d definitely screwed up his relationship with Freya. What if they’d had a child together? How would he have felt if she’d taken the child away from him?

But Joe Millar was violent to his partner. I would never do that
.

Never say never
.

McNab’s intimate thoughts, not expressed on his face, he hoped, were now interrupted by a question from his island superior, DI Flett.

‘Where’s Muir now?’

‘He’s writing a statement, sir. PC Tulloch’s with him.’

By DI Flett’s expression, he hadn’t been fooled by McNab’s deferential tone.

‘He’s been swabbed?’

‘Yes, sir, and his fingerprints taken.’

‘Did you question him any further about the girl and Mike Jones?’

McNab decided attack was his best defence, so went for it. ‘I chose not to interrupt the confession, sir. Also we need someone, who isn’t connected to Muir, to sit in on any further
interviews.’