None but the Dead (27 page)

The woman standing before him was barely recognizable from their previous meeting at the community centre. Inga’s mother appeared to have aged ten years since he’d
last spoken to her. Of all the tasks he had to face as a detective, dealing with the parent of a missing child was, McNab felt, the worst. As he apologized for the intrusion, she interrupted
him.

‘It’s about Sam Flett, isn’t it?’

When McNab nodded, she said, ‘I heard you found his body on the causeway last night. Poor Sam, he was kind to Inga and she was very fond of him.’

Her belief in Sam’s innocence of anything untoward in her daughter’s disappearance was obvious. McNab wasn’t so certain. Experience had shown that those known to the girl were
the most likely suspects, particularly when the child liked and trusted them.

‘How did he die?’ Inga’s mother was saying. ‘Did he drown?’

McNab used the standard get-out clause. ‘We won’t know until the post-mortem.’

‘I thought he was too old to be out searching, but he insisted.’ She halted as tears took over. ‘He was our first friend on Sanday.’

McNab chose that moment to ease her round to the subject of the photograph Sam had planned to show her.

‘It was a newspaper cutting,’ she said. ‘I have it here.’

She fetched a plastic folder from a nearby shelf and handed it to him.

Through the plastic, the cutting looked old and fragile. A group of rather startled children stared at the camera. The clothing suggested the thirties or forties, but McNab was no authority on
dress through the ages. Two rows, one of boys, the other girls. The girl in the middle had dark hair cut in a bob. She was the only one with an excited smile on her face.

‘She looks very like your daughter,’ McNab said.

‘She does, doesn’t she? When Sam arrived with it looking for Inga, I didn’t pay any attention. I was too worried by the fact that she hadn’t reached his house, although
she’d left more than an hour before.’

Asking her who she thought it might be seemed inappropriate at that moment, so McNab changed tack.

‘What route did Inga normally take to Sam’s house?’

‘I told Ivan Tulloch that already,’ she said.

‘Tell me.’

‘She crossed the fields in between.’

‘Always?’

‘Usually, unless there were cows. You shouldn’t walk through a herd of cows.’

‘Were there cows there yesterday morning?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘If she didn’t cross the field?’

She thought for a moment. ‘She sometimes went along the beach rather than use the road.’

‘How much traffic is there?’

‘Very little. Just local, except in the summer when we get visitors coming to see the lighthouse.’

‘So you haven’t seen any strange cars about?’

She shook her head.

‘What about boats in the bay?’

‘People do fish out there, but . . .’ She ground to a halt.

‘You’ve had no mystery phone calls? No feeling you were being watched?’

‘No.’ She appeared puzzled by his questions.

‘Did Inga mention Start Island at any point?’

Her mother thought for a moment. ‘They did a project in school about the lighthouse. Derek Muir, the Ranger, took them over to see it. They climbed to the top. She liked that.’ Her
eyes misted over.

‘But she didn’t mention going there to look for the missing skull?’

She shook her head.

McNab now came back to the photograph.

‘Have you any idea who the girl in the photograph is?’

She seemed to be expecting the question. ‘I think it’s probably my grandfather’s sister, Ola Sinclair.’

‘And the school?’

‘The local one.’ Her face clouded. ‘Where Mike Jones lives now.’ She shot McNab a look. ‘Is it true what they’re saying about him?’

‘What are they saying?’

‘That he’s a paedophile, hiding out on Sanday. How he had sex with a fifteen-year-old pupil, and she killed herself.’

‘When you first spoke to me, you were willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.’

She didn’t look so sure of that now.

They dragged Derek’s small boat up the shell beach, just beyond the high-water mark. The journey over had been uncomfortable for Rhona. Derek had attempted to ask her
about the discovery of Sam’s body and she’d had to indicate she couldn’t answer his questions, regardless of the fact that he was obviously upset.

At that he’d announced, ‘They said that he got caught in the tide. I don’t buy that. Sam knew the movement of the tides and the crossing. He wouldn’t have made a mistake
like that.’

Rhona tended to agree, but could hardly say so.

As the boat met the shore, Derek jumped out first, followed by Magnus, and the two men pulled the bow high enough for Rhona to step onto the shell sand with her forensic bag.

The weather seemed to be in their favour today. Scudding clouds indicated the presence of a brisk breeze, but the sky was bright and the rain had apparently deserted them for the moment. Having
secured the boat, Derek suggested he walk ahead to the lighthouse. He was due to make a routine check there anyway. The lamp was powered by solar panels, but during the winter that had to be
supplemented on occasion by diesel, and the tank needed checking.

‘I’ll go up top. I can see the whole island from there, provided the weather stays like this.’

With a good pair of binoculars and Derek’s knowledge of every inch of the terrain, if there was a body in view, he would spot it. No one voiced that, but all three thought it, although
there was also the lochan that bordered the northern shore to consider, its expanse of water a haven for reeds and birds.

They agreed that Rhona and Magnus would search the derelict farm steading, and then head for Maesry Mound, meeting Derek there. They all checked their mobiles, to find Derek was the only one to
have a signal of sorts.

Before he set off, Rhona reminded him that if he did discover anything suspicious, he should immediately come and get her.

‘Don’t touch anything,’ she repeated.

Derek set off along the track that followed the north shore, while Rhona and Magnus climbed a low stone dyke to make their way across a field to the farm.

She’d viewed the farm during her earlier walk along the southern shore. From there she hadn’t appreciated the number and variety of the buildings clustered together, their backs
turned to the sea. It was more of a small settlement, with a row of tiny cottages, a main house and numerous outbuildings.

They agreed to split forces for the search. Magnus would take the outbuildings, while Rhona checked the main house and cottages. As she entered what must have been a small garden to the front of
the main house, Rhona paused to listen to the relative silence. The layout of the buildings was such that they all faced inward, allowing the residents shelter from the winds that came from the
surrounding sea.

Here too, as in the fields, lay evidence of the wild geese that plagued the farmers, the same black droppings littering the grass of the forgotten garden.

Rhona focussed on the main house, the only building which had an upper floor. Gazing through the hole where a window had been, she saw the remains of an ancient rusty kitchen range, the only
symbol left inside of its previous occupants.

The lower half of the wooden front door was rotted and broken. Through the gap, scattered piles of broken lobster creels and old fishing floats were visible. When she tried to open the remainder
of the door, it refused to budge, so she went back to the window and climbed through.

As she shouted Inga’s name, her voice, no longer whipped off by the wind, met the interior stone walls and played back to her. But no answering call came, however often she tried.

Eventually she established that there was nothing in the lower rooms but rubble, old fishing ropes, scraps of nets and the decomposing remains of a number of birds and small animals. At a guess,
a wild cat or two were using the space to store and eat their meals. They appeared to be the building’s only visitors. Making for the narrow staircase leading upwards, and noting their poor
state, Rhona tested each step before using it.

The layout in the attic was much the same as at Sam’s place, although there were no walls or doors to separate the two low-ceilinged rooms. Bird droppings, broken slates and dust were the
only things up there.

Rhona retreated downstairs, and exited the way she’d come in.

The row of tiny cottages proved just as empty. Relieved to discover no evidence of Inga, Rhona was also frustrated that their journey to the island had brought no clues as to what had happened
to the girl. She couldn’t escape the thought that Sam’s visit had had something to do with Inga’s search for the skull.

As she emerged from the final building, Magnus jumped the wall between them.

‘There’s no sign of anything or anyone having been here,’ he said.

‘I agree. Let’s head for the mound.’

They set out across the intervening field. Scanning the horizon for Derek, Rhona couldn’t spot him anywhere.

‘Chances are he’s in the lighthouse,’ Magnus said.

Approaching the mound from the north, there was no sign of the entrance. Magnus followed her round, marvelling at the shape and size of the Neolithic hill.

‘It’s like a smaller version of Maeshowe,’ he said.

‘Wait until you see inside,’ Rhona promised, excited now at the prospect of checking for the presence of the skull.

On reaching the access tunnel, Rhona looked for the footprints she’d photographed earlier, only to find they were no longer visible. In fact, it looked as though the soil had been raked,
the object used, she suspected, a piece of driftwood lying nearby.

‘Someone’s swept the ground clean,’ Magnus said.

‘It certainly looks like it.’

Rhona re-photographed the area, then entered the tunnel to find the large slab that had blocked the opening had been moved to one side. There would be no problem seeing into the central chamber
now. There would be no difficulty entering it either.

Which could only mean one thing. There was no longer anything there for them to find.

The jeep stood in the middle of the bay like a stranded whale. A vast, shallow bowl with a narrow inlet, Cata Sand had a thin film of water at high tide. At low tide, as now,
it was transformed into a vast expanse of golden sand populated by the worm-like spirals of razor clams or spoots as they were known locally.

The farmer who’d reported seeing the jeep had initially assumed that someone was taking a shortcut across the bay to the ruins of Tresness Farm on the neighbouring peninsula, a common
enough occurrence. Or that a joyrider was taking advantage of the wide expanse of firm sand while the tide was out.

Neither had been the case.

Having finally realized it might be Sam Flett’s vehicle, he’d called the community centre looking for the ‘Glasgow detective’.

McNab didn’t like crossing the large area of wet sand, but wasn’t prepared to display his discomfort in front of PC Tulloch. As well as being nervous of wide open spaces, he also
wasn’t a fan of beaches. He mistrusted the sand’s intentions, believing its real goal was to suck him down, like quicksand. Neither was he keen on tramping across what looked like an
army of worms. Even as he did so, spoots of water erupted on all sides, marking his progress.

If Tulloch picked up on his discomfort, he neither mentioned nor showed it, although he did explain why they were being fired at.

‘The razor clam feels the movement on the surface and digs down deeper to avoid you. That causes the fountain of water.’

McNab made no comment.

They’d left their own vehicle next to a small squat concrete building, which Tulloch had referred to bizarrely as the brickie hut, telling him it had once served as a lookout shelter.
McNab would have preferred to drive rather than walk across the sand, but Tulloch had advised against it. ‘The chassis’s too low on the car. We could get stuck.’

As they neared the small jeep, McNab felt his pulse quicken. The man who’d called in said he hadn’t approached the vehicle, just checked it out with his binoculars. He didn’t
think there was anyone inside, but couldn’t be sure.

McNab upped his pace, the surface of the sand no longer an issue.

The film of water was a little deeper here, indicating that the jeep stood in the lowest part of the bowl, halfway across. McNab sloshed through it.

The driver’s window was down, the seat wet with the rain that had fallen overnight. The passenger side was empty too, the window on that side wound up. On the floor round the pedals was a
sprinkling of what looked like shell fragments.

McNab moved to the back door and opened it with gloved hands.

The narrow back seat lay empty, but not the floor.

He hesitated, registering the find, feeling the blood rushing to his head, his throat tightening. And all the time, the word
No
was repeating in his brain, like a mantra.

McNab reached down for the child’s anorak that covered the motionless bundle, and drew it back.

‘There was a pair of wellington boots under the anorak.’

Rhona had imagined the scene, seen the bundle on the jeep floor and tasted McNab’s fear as he’d pulled back the coat.

‘But it wasn’t Inga’s body,’ she’d said firmly. ‘And the boots will give us some indication of where she’s been.’

Rhona had expected the soles of the wellingtons to have deposits of shell sand on them, similar to that retrieved from the jeep’s pedals. Instead she’d extracted soil which, by its
scent alone, contained a high proportion of manure. The floor of the back seat had yielded more of the same mix. It seemed the girl had likely been on farmland prior to the jeep picking her up,
whereas the driver of the jeep had last been walking on shell sand. The tyres of the jeep may yet give them more evidence, but driving it onto Cata Sand had resulted in both the sand and seawater
removing the surface deposits. Perhaps that was the reason it had been abandoned there, in the hope that it might be washed clean.

The evidence she’d already extracted had conjured up a variety of scenarios, which she and McNab had discussed at some length. The most common being that Inga had been intercepted as
she’d taken a shortcut across the fields on her way to Sam’s place.