Pig Island (22 page)

“It’s warm. The house.”

He smiled. “Good. And have you had your breakfast?”

I nodded, letting a kind of half-laugh come out of my nose. “Now you’re going ask me am I ready for this.”

“Aye. And what’s the answer?”

“No. Of course it’s no. I’ll do it, but I’m never going to be ready.”

Chapter 4

Turns out these Strathclyde lads aren’t the genius bizzies they fancy themselves. They knew I was a journalist, Struthers had given me chapter and verse about it, but did anybody search me that morning on Cuagach? Did anybody find the mini digital camera stashed in my jacket? Did they fuck.

At ten thirty Angeline went away with Danso and a small bald man—‘The Crime Scene Manager’, Struthers told me. She was going to show them where she’d been hiding when she saw her father pushing the explosives into the chapel window, which route he’d taken to arrive there, so they could sketch it out and get a laser 3D capture for Forensics. Someone brought Wellington boots and gloves for me, and Struthers and me headed off to the north, following photocopied sheets that flapped on tree-trunks:

Body Holding Area This Way

→

It was a leafy path I’d never been along before, quiet and cold. To its right, the land sloped down to the rocks and from time to time a wind came up off the sea and slapped us with its salty spray. On our left was the dark forest, where police tape fluttered among the tree-trunks. Beyond the tape I could see white lines laid out on the ground like a grid, each line numbered with a red marker.

“You know what I was thinking?” Struthers said. “I was just thinking, this place must be covered with your prints, eh?”

There was something needling in his tone. I didn’t look at him. “Yeah, I suppose.”

“How about in the chapel?”

“I was in there once,” I said, “for about five minutes. I told you yesterday. Remember? You got elimination prints from me at the station.”

“So, nothing else, then? The CSM’s not going to find anything else, hairs or other—uh—
traces
?” He gave me an unhealthy smile, showing dull yellow teeth. “I mean, old man, you were on the island for a few days, and things happen between people. Know what I mean?”

I stopped. He’d gone on a few steps before he realized I wasn’t with him. He came to a halt and looked at me. The end of his nose and the tips of his ears were a bit red from the exercise. Behind him, out to sea, the horizon was a dark, unwavering blue.

“No,” I said coldly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Just trying to work out what sort of relationship you had with these people. Whether it was good or not.”

“It was good. But not so good that I fucked any of them, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Struthers laughed and turned, continuing down the path, his hands in the air. “OK, OK. Just trying to get a feel for what the atmosphere was like out here. Sue me. There’s a CAP 1 form back at the station.”

I didn’t move. I let him go on ahead, watching his back, fleshy and broad-shouldered. We were destined not to get along, Callum Struthers and me. Star-crossed sparrers. He was everything I’d expected from a Strathclyde bizzy: overdressed, opinionated, vain. He tried to sound more intelligent than he was (why did he think it was smarter to say ‘individual’ and not ‘person’?) and he smelt like he was on one of those diets that give you kidney damage. Struthers, for his part, had taken one look at me with my scabbing knees and my Scouse accent and I know the first thing that went through his head was
Is there any way I can make this guy’s life really difficult
?

Now he disappeared round the bend ahead, leaving me alone on the path. And there, I saw, he’d given me a little gift, although he didn’t know it. I counted off a few beats of time, then turned and peered into the trees. The chapel was somewhere in there, only a few hundred yards up, if I’d got my bearings right. “Video,” someone was shouting from deep in the trees. “Video, please. Over here—eighty-three/twenty.
Can you hear me, camera team? Need video at eighty-three/twenty.”‘

I pulled out my camera, crouched under the police tape, steadied my hands on a branch—couldn’t use flash—and rattled off ten photos. I shielded my eyes and checked the display. The zoom wasn’t great, but you could just make out two ghostly figures in pale blue suits half hidden by the dark tree-trunks. The search-and-recovery team. Not outstanding as photos go, but not bad.

“Hey?” Struthers called from ahead. His voice was faint. “You with me?”

I ducked out of the forest, pocketing the camera, back on to the path. It turned left, away from the cliff, and led upwards into the forest. There, about a hundred yards ahead, he was standing, watching me.

“This is it,” he said, as I joined him. “I think this is it.”

We turned and looked down to where the land dipped, forming a natural hollow, cold and leaf-shaded, shielded on the coastal side by screens. One or two sharp blades of sun pointed like lasers through the tree canopy. It was weirdly silent, the only sound the low humming of the generator that powered two refrigeration trucks. We were looking at their roofs, the ventilators opened to the fresh air. Next to them was a packing crate the size of a small car. It had been opened so you could see the contents: grey fibreglass coffins, opaque like cocoons, piled one on top of another. A photographer, in a green fluorescent tabard, helmet and boots, stood in front of the crate, peering down at the display on his camera, scrolling through shots like I’d just been doing.

Struthers ran his hand across the back of his head. He didn’t speak. You could tell from his face he didn’t want to be here.

“Come on, then.”

We started down the path. We were half-way into the clearing when the doors of the nearest truck opened. George, the guy I’d spent the afternoon with at Oban, jumped out. He was wearing full body-suit and galoshes, and was followed by another man dressed the same. They both said something to the photographer, who lowered the camera and looked up into the woods in the opposite direction from me and Struthers. They all stood for a while, looking expectantly in the same direction towards the chapel. After a few moments there was a rustle of leaves and two members of the search-and-recovery team came quickly out of the trees, almost at a jog. Between them they carried something heavy wrapped in thick plastic, a pink form taped to the top of it. They lowered the package to the ground, said something to George, then swivelled and headed back into the woods at the same half-jog. The three men gathered round the package.

“This is where I start to earn my money,” Struthers muttered at my side, a bit sick-sounding. “This is the bit no one wants to do. C’mon.” We came to the bottom of the path, out into the clearing, jumping down the last two feet. “George,” he said, raising a hand in greeting.

“Yeah.” He didn’t look up. “With you in a minute, gentlemen. Just finishing with the doctor here.”

We stood for a few moments, a bit awkward, looking for somewhere to put ourselves while the photographer circled the package, clicking off photo after photo. The doctor crouched and untaped the pink form, handing it to George. He carefully unfolded the layers of plastic. Inside was a thick lump of flesh wrapped in cloth. I stopped breathing, thinking,
No way—this is a joke. Someone’s got a bit of pig meat and put it in a T-shirt. Who are they trying to shake
? Next to me Struthers opened his mouth and started breathing through it. He tried to do it subtly, but I could hear it anyway.

George clipped the form to his board and began to tick off boxes. “Right—what’ve we got? Number 147, grid ref 52-10.” He broke off, frowning at what he was reading. “Oh, what’s the sodding point?” he said, dropping the clipboard to his side in frustration. “No one listens to a thing I tell them.”

The doctor looked up. “What?”

“Look at this. Section twenty-two. Box ticked? Number one.”

“Yeah?”

‘
Box number one
,“ he repeated, nodding significantly at the parcel. ”How many times have I got to tell them? Box
two
. If it’s just a body part, they tick box
two. Incomplete
.“ He shook his head and corrected the mistake, then went bad-temperedly down the list, ticking off boxes as he went. ”So what’ve we got—the usual? Human. Life extinct—’

“Yes—‘

“—at, let’s see, eleven oh-four a.m. And what? Caucasian?”

“Yup. Male.”

“And you’re saying it’s … ?”

“Torso.” The doctor turned the meat over. He looked at the underside for a few moments then lowered it. There was a neat circle of bone under the skin—I knew what it was: it was a severed spinal column. I thought about Sovereign and her pink jelly sandals and her dozy way of speaking. I imagined George piecing her brittle leg bones together on a trestle table. I thought about the old missionary and his broken toe pointing at the stars. I turned and sat quickly on a nearby tree-trunk, shaking. I had to spit, had to use my fingers to loop the taste out of my mouth and shake it off them, splattering it on to the ground. “Malachi, you fucker,” I muttered. “You arse.”

“Yeah, it’s torso,” said the doctor. “Half the thoracic, all of the lumbar section.”

“So what’s that? Everything missing except oh-six and oh-seven?”

“That’ll do.” The doctor peeled away the piece of torn T-shirt and held it up for George to inspect.

“A T-shirt.” He ran his pen down the list, tutting. “When did Interpol write this? They’ve got a code for a corset, for Christ’s sake, even one for a girdle. But is there a code for a T-shirt? They need a course in twenty-first-century living.” He wrote in large angry letters. “T-SHIRT.”

“What colour would you call it?” The doctor said. “Brown? Purple? Milly says I get my browns and purples mixed up.”

George peered over his glasses at it. “Wine-coloured,” he said, after a while.

“Wine-coloured,” the doctor agreed, dropping the cloth into a bag. “Exactly.”

George completed his form, the doctor initialled it, then the two men refolded the parcel, taped the form back on top and, facing each other, each taking one end of the plastic, shuffled sideways and lifted it laboriously into the lorry. Struthers didn’t say anything. After a while he came and sat down stiffly next to me, not looking at me or speaking. Every other breath he made a sound in his throat, like he was trying to dislodge phlegm.

“Well,” he said eventually, “that’ll be a DNA jobby. More money. Boss’ll be ecstatic.” A muscle in his face twitched. Just under his right eye, like a nerve was trapped in there. “DNA,” he repeated carefully, like I might not have heard of it, coming from Liverpool and everything. ‘
D-N-A
.“

Chapter 5

“Colour-coding. It’s the only way to go. I’ve seen a file organizer with colour-coded compartments. The way I’m thinking is I can put my ante-mortem forms in the yellow tray, my PM forms in the pink tray. Looks like there aren’t going to be any evacuee forms so I’d keep the blue compartment for when I’ve matched my PMs and mispers.”

Me and George were inside the refrigeration truck. The doors were open behind us but the light was dim, so the photographer had given me a handheld halogen lamp for the viewing. I waited in silence, the lamp dangling in one hand, the other pinching my nose while George moved around in the semi-darkness at the far end of the truck, opening and rearranging two fibreglass coffins, dragging them into the middle of the floor.

“What you said yesterday about them having no medicals, no dentals? Well, you were right. We’re looking but so far no biopsies, no X-rays, not even a print on file. It’ll be ninety per cent genetic IDing, because if we get a visual on ten per cent we’ll be lucky bastards indeed. I’m going to be up to my pointy little ears in paperwork.”

I switched on the lamp and ran it over two piles of plastic-wrapped shapes pushed up against the right side of the truck, all milky and opaque from the cold. Some of the bodies had burned in the fire after the explosion, and in places I could see blackened shapes pressing against the plastic. A pink notice hung above the furthest pile: ‘Incomplete 1-100’. I moved the light across the walls, the beam bouncing off the textured aluminium panelling. The sign above the second pile read: ‘Incomplete 101-200’. I switched off the lamp, my heart thudding loudly.

“I’ve only got two for you today.” George straightened and looked at me. The shadows on his face were etched and solid. In the gloom I could see he’d opened both coffins and folded the black rubber body-bag away to reveal the faces. “The only two who made it out of the chapel after the blast. Must’ve been in the corners behind the others—that’s how you get through an explosion. Someone else takes the force for you. Course, doesn’t mean you survive in the long run.” He picked up his clipboard from the floor and showed me two yellow sheets. “I got these out earlier. Our chat yesterday? Remember? I think I know who our two are. Still, I’d like you to give me the thumbs-up.”

I knew who he meant. The missionary and Blake Frandenburg. There wouldn’t be anything of Sovereign left to identify. I switched on the light and approached, holding it down at an angle. In the first coffin lay the missionary, his face intact, eyes sunken. I looked at him in silence.

“Okonole?”

I nodded. “Okonole.”

George wrote a neat three in a box at the top left-hand of the yellow form and tucked it with some satisfaction behind the other. We moved to the second coffin where Blake Frandenburg lay, his eyes like holes, his leathery face emaciated, like death had taken half his body weight. One of his hands poked stiffly out of the body-bag as if he was reaching for something—a light, or the sky maybe. I stared at that hand, thinking of him sitting in the cottage holding a fire poker, well ready to take me on at twice his size.

“You OK there?” asked George. “Want some time on your own?”

I turned stiffly to him. “Sorry?”