None but the Dead (35 page)

‘No,’ Rhona said. ‘Were you aware there were underground bomb shelters in the camp?’

‘I was, why?’

When she showed him the pamphlet, Magnus stared at the picture, his brow furrowed.

‘I thought they’d all been filled in, even by the time I came here as a boy.’

‘Then when was this picture taken?’

‘I have no idea.’

Rhona pointed at the cross she’d marked on the Ordnance Survey map. ‘Studying the material and first-hand accounts, I estimate this is the spot not far from the mortuary. Whether
it’s this particular bunker, I’m not sure.’

‘No one reported an opening like this when the area was searched.’

‘Even partially filled in, it would be fairly easy to miss, if you weren’t aware of its existence.’

‘So you want us to take a look at first light?’

She nodded.

Magnus’s expression grew serious. ‘What do you expect to find there?’

Rhona had no desire to remind him that her forensic speciality was hidden or buried bodies.

She left Magnus at midnight and was treated to a display of the northern lights on her return trip to the cottage. Stopping the car, Rhona stepped out to watch. The Merry
Dancers didn’t dance for long and their gowns weren’t as brilliantly coloured as she’d seen in video footage, but to view their brief appearance in person definitely lifted her
spirits.

Drawing up in front of the dark cottage, she left on the headlights to help her locate the key and open the front door. After this, she took herself round to the rear of the building to search
for the elusive signal. A number of emails and messages arrived, including another from Sean, this time with an attachment.

Rhona went inside, to discover that the stove had long since gone out. She plugged in the electric heater left there for such emergencies, and went for a shower before bed. The beat of the water
on her head, in the past, had often sparked thought and even insight. She pondered now the timeline they’d drawn for Inga, her possible captor, and for Sam.

Doing that had made her even more convinced that the answer lay at sea, or somewhere on the miles of coast. There were, she suspected, a myriad of places a small boat might pull ashore or be
hidden under rock arches or caves. Sanday had many long beaches, but it also had an expanse of rocky shoreline.

She remembered a story Sam had told her of a long cold winter a century ago when Inuit coracles had been sighted off the far north of this parish. The men in them had always made off as soon as
they’d realized they were being watched. They apparently never set foot on dry land, but fished, ate and slept on the water in their small, fast but fragile boats.

Joe Millar was a fisherman, and she had no doubt he could survive at sea.

But maybe he’s gone already. To a nearby island. Westray, North Ronaldsay, even the Orkney mainland, and we’re searching here in vain.

The earlier elation generated by the dancing lights had departed, her mood now low.

Sitting up in bed, she finally opened Sean’s message.

For you
, was all it said. Rhona clicked on the attachment.

It was the song he’d played for her at the beginning of their relationship. Huddled now beneath the duvet, she listened to the saxophone’s notes of love, and questioned why they
didn’t move her as they should.

Erling lay awake, staring into the darkness. Sleep hadn’t eluded Rory, whose steady breathing beside him only served to accentuate Erling’s own wakefulness. He
contemplated going to the bedroom next door to try again, or else give up entirely and start the day now, at this early hour.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d done that when pondering a case. His brain seemed to work better at night, when the detritus of the day dissolved into the background, presenting
the problems that hadn’t been solved more clearly.

He’d taken the decision to return on the police launch, rather than spend the night at Sam’s, for no other reason than Rory had said he would be here. Since the child’s
disappearance, they’d barely spoken on the phone, let alone seen one another. And every relationship needed nurturing.

Maybe this one more than most.

The gnawing feeling he’d had on his return to the cottage when he’d heard Rory on the phone had returned, but this time for a very different reason. Maybe it was the way the past had
come back to haunt the residents of Sanday that had sparked his unease.

But it wasn’t that which had fed the flames.

It was when I mentioned the Glasgow detective’s name.

Now in the kitchen, the coffee machine filled and switched on, Erling recalled the scene at the dinner table in detail. They’d finished the main course and were tucking into Orkney cheese
and biscuits, and making a determined move to finish a second bottle of red wine. Rory had been telling stories of other places he’d worked as a diver. It had sounded like a round-the-world
trip. Erling’s only sojourn away from Orkney to attend university had seemed embarrassingly timid. When he’d said so, Rory had rebuked him.

‘I didn’t always choose to go to those places. Often, I had to.’

Erling had waited for him to explain his remark, but he hadn’t. Instead he’d changed the subject, asking how things were going on Sanday. Erling had duly answered, but not in any
great detail. Just mentioned that they’d had a confession regarding the theft of the skull, and that they also knew what had happened to the elderly Orcadian they’d found in Glasgow. It
was at that moment he’d mentioned DS McNab’s name.

Rory, who Erling believed had been feigning interest until that point, now really did pay attention.

His head shot up. ‘Who’s that?’

‘The detective they sent up from Glasgow. Why?’

‘I didn’t realize they’d bring in an outsider.’

‘Any murder investigation is allotted an MIT team, particularly if it occurs in a location not used to that level of investigation.’

Rory nodded, but Erling could see that behind the false calm lay unease.

‘To be truthful, I didn’t take to the guy when I first met him,’ Erling admitted, hoping his honesty might prompt Rory to reveal what lay behind the studied neutrality.

Rory helped himself to more wine and another slice of cheese, then said, ‘Really. Why?’

‘He was arrogant and basically insubordinate.’

It seemed to Erling that a flash of recognition crossed Rory’s face before it went blank again.

‘But now. . .’ Erling continued, his own disquiet deepening.

‘What?’

‘I still think those things, but I also believe he’s good at his job, probably because he does get under the skin.’

Rory was studying his wine intently.

‘How much longer is he here for?’

‘Until we find the girl, I suspect.’

‘Do you think she’s still alive?’

‘Statistically it’s unlikely, but if it was her estranged father who snatched her, then perhaps there’s a chance.’

The awkwardness of the moment had passed. With a smile, Rory had refilled Erling’s glass and suggested they head for bed.

Pouring himself a mug of coffee now, Erling carried it to the bedroom door. Rory was still asleep. The duvet had slipped down, exposing the muscled chest and tattooed arms. Erling felt a stir of
desire and contemplated getting back into bed and wrapping himself round the warm body. If he did, Rory would waken, and they would replay the games of last night.

But his mood of suspicion wouldn’t allow it.

He closed the door and went to shower and get ready for the day.

McNab had hung around the bar until just before ten, then gone upstairs. He hadn’t watched the TV since his arrival, but did so now, the flurry of channels it offered
giving him a glimpse of a world he’d all but forgotten existed.

The ten o’clock news was followed by a shipping forecast that warned of high winds and rain overnight, particularly over the northern isles.

It seemed Sanday was about to get a battering.

Again.

McNab propped himself up on the bed with his final double of the night, relishing the warm fuzzy glow the whisky had bestowed on him, in tandem with fighting the negative feelings that had
resulted from his fall from grace.

It was because Freya dumped me.

That would, of course, be the excuse he would feed Rhona should the need arise, despite the fact that it wasn’t true.

When Torvaig shouted he was off home, McNab called back his farewells, then headed downstairs to unlock the door that Torvaig had just secured.

He would give it half an hour then go to bed, he decided.

Whatever Hege had planned to communicate couldn’t be that urgent or she would have shown up by now. McNab took his disappointment back upstairs with him.

The screen had morphed from the news into some foreign detective story with a female lead that didn’t do smiling. McNab pondered why the national broadcaster was so keen on buying in
police thrillers from Scandinavia rather than develop more based in this part of Scotland.
After all, it’s foreign enough up here
. He wondered if it was because of the weather, but the
weather on the screen looked just as bad as Sanday had been promised for tonight.

His thoughts were interrupted by the drill of his mobile, something he’d almost got used to not hearing. Glancing down, he saw Hege’s name and answered.

‘Has everyone gone?’ she said.

‘Yes. And the door’s open.’

Minutes later, he heard her climb the stairs. McNab immediately stood up, then sat down again. There was only one chair in the room, which he would offer to her. He would therefore have to
stand, or else sit on the bed.

For fuck’s sake. Get a grip.

He waited for her knock on the door before opening it.

She looked rather startled at his appearance, as though she hadn’t expected to find him there.

She’s as awkward and embarrassed as me,
he thought
. But why?

As she accepted his invitation to enter, he caught the scent of whisky. Whether from her breath or his own, he wasn’t sure.

‘Take a seat.’ He gestured to the only chair.

‘I’m sorry it took me so long,’ she apologized, not explaining the reason.

‘So,’ McNab said, deciding to get to the point. ‘Is this police business or is there another reason you wanted to visit me in my room?’

When she blushed, he added, ‘Of course, had I a choice in the matter, I’d much prefer it to be the latter.’ McNab gave her what he hoped was his signature grin.

His attempts to lighten the moment seemed to work, because she smiled in response and visibly relaxed.

‘No female has asked to visit your hotel room before?’ she played back at him.

‘I wouldn’t say that, exactly.’

Silence fell as she contemplated her next response.

Eventually she said, ‘I think I know who sent you that text about Sam Flett.’

‘Really? Who?’

‘The man who picked a fight about Mike Jones being served.’

‘He had access to your mobile?’

She flushed. ‘Yes.’

McNab waited for her to go on, knowing what would come next before she said it.

‘He and I were . . .’ She halted there.

‘Go on.’

‘The boat came into the harbour for repairs two days before the incident at the pub.’ The eyes that met his were defiant, but troubled.

McNab rose from his seat on the bed and went to the window. The wind was whipping at the surface of the water, turning it to froth. The mass of seaweed rose and fell among the foam.

He turned. ‘And when did you discover that Joe Millar was in fact Inga’s father?’

‘You know?’ she said in surprise.

‘When did you find out?’ McNab repeated.

‘The night of the argument. After you left, someone mentioned the kids who lived near the schoolhouse. How they were easy game for . . .’ She hesitated.

‘The paedo,’ he finished for her, imagining what had been said, and how it might have sealed Mike Jones’s fate.

She continued, ‘Joe was distraught when he heard Inga’s name.’

‘So Millar found out on Friday night that his wife and daughter were on Sanday?’

She nodded.

‘And his reaction to that?’

‘He was angry and upset. He told me later, when we were alone, that she’d left him for another man, and taken his daughter with her. He’d been searching for them ever
since.’

‘Did he mention that he used to beat Inga’s mother and that she left him before he could do the same to Inga?’ McNab said coldly.

Shock and horror filled her face. ‘I can’t believe Joe would do that . . .’

‘Maybe you need a bit more time in the sack with him to find out what Joe Millar
is
capable of.’

As she withered under his words, McNab reminded himself that browbeating a woman was also a form of abuse.

‘Inga went missing on Saturday,’ he reminded her.

‘But everyone thought Joe had left with the boat first thing on Saturday morning,’ she countered.

‘Yet the text you say he sent me from your mobile arrived on Saturday.’

McNab poured a whisky from the bottle he’d fetched from the bar. She was visibly in shock, her face transparent, her hand trembling as she accepted the glass. She took a
mouthful and swallowed. He would have liked to fill his own glass and do the same, but found himself resisting the move. She glanced at him as though to check whether she might finish it.

‘Go ahead,’ he said.

When she did, he poured her another measure.

She shivered as a gust of wind and rain hit the window. They were in for a wild night, as promised. McNab pulled the duvet from the bed and offered it to her. She took it gratefully, wrapping it
round her shoulders.

After a few moments, twin red spots appeared on her cheeks.

When she looked ready, he tried again.

‘So, about this text?’

‘Just because it arrived on Saturday, doesn’t mean it was sent then.’ She was fighting back. ‘On Sanday, texts get delivered when your mobile locates a signal.’

Which was true.

‘You saw Joe on Friday?’

‘He stayed over Friday night and got up early to join the boat. My place has no signal. I get my messages when I’m at the centre, or here at the pub.’