None but the Dead (3 page)

‘But someone else might?’

‘This entire archipelago is a wonderland for archaeologists. What were your plans for the playground?’

‘Vegetables, but not until spring.’

Erling nodded. ‘Okay, now show me what you found in the loft.’

He had painted the image with a swiftness and sureness of hand he’d never experienced before. The intricacy of the magic flower still astonished him. He’d intended
keeping the grey colour of the strip of muslin, but had found shades and hues dropping from his paintbrush. Even now, gazing on his attempts at painting one, Mike wanted to paint them all, although
he would have to remove them from the loft to do that. A thought that made him uneasy.

Perhaps I could take photographs of them in situ and work from that.

The policeman’s voice broke into his thoughts.

‘Did you paint this?’ He was observing the canvas with an appreciative eye.

‘Yes,’ Mike said, almost shyly, because he thought it was better work than he’d done for some time. ‘The original is here.’ He lifted the bagged flower from the
table and offered it over.

The detective immediately tipped the flower into his hand, causing Mike’s heart to speed up. He didn’t regard himself as superstitious, but since he’d found out what the magic
flowers represented, he hadn’t handled them again.

The detective spent some moments examining it before passing it to the Ranger.

‘What do you think?’

Derek whistled between his teeth.

‘I’ve heard of these but never actually seen one.’

‘What is it exactly?’

‘The hem of a muslin smock torn off and made into what was known as a magic flower. The story goes they were fashioned to represent the soul of the child who’d worn the
smock.’

The detective looked thoughtful at this explanation, but there appeared no unease at the Ranger’s words.

He checked with Mike. ‘And you said on the phone there were others?’

‘Twelve,’ Mike said, hearing a catch in his throat. ‘In the loft of the unrenovated section.’

‘Thirteen deaths in one school?’ The detective posed this question to the Ranger.

‘The deaths could have been over a long period. Maybe the flowers weren’t all made for pupils at the school. Maybe they were for younger siblings or even for different
parishes.’

‘How long has this building been here?’

‘The one-teacher schools were closed in the late forties and the pupils centralized. This building’s been here for at least a century.’

‘What about registering the deaths?’ Erling said.

‘Registration became compulsory on 1 January 1855. Before that, deaths may have been written in old parish records but not necessarily,’ the Ranger explained.

‘Could these have anything to do with what we found out there?’

‘I couldn’t see the children, whoever they were, being buried next to the schoolhouse. More likely they’d be laid to rest in a cemetery or on their own croft ground.’

Mike found himself momentarily relieved by that thought, then realized why he shouldn’t be.

‘Then who’s buried out there?’ he said worriedly.

The wind that had buffeted the cottage throughout the night had gone, although evidence of it was there on the salt-streaked windows. She’d been wakened by its howl in
the dark middle of the night. Lying there in the warm cocoon of her bed, Rhona had watched the rain lash at the dormer window, a defiant moon forcing its way through the dark mass of cloud to gaze
down on her as though in sympathy at the onslaught.

Last night, and the three that had gone before, had all brought back sweeping memories of her childhood. This had always been her room. The view to the stars, when they were visible, her window
on the heavens. Back then, she’d taken comfort in the knowledge that her parents slept next door and there was nothing to fear from the sound and fury of the elements that beat at the
three-foot-thick stone walls, at times as though some mad god wanted to sweep her, her parents and the stones that sheltered them off the face of the earth.

Now all was still, the silence broken only by the soft sound of waves on the nearby shore.

Rhona dressed and, grabbing her jacket, opened the front door and stepped outside.

Her breath caught in her throat as it always did as she took in the sight that lay before her. Some said that the view from the Gaelic college Sabhal Mor Ostaig on the Sleat peninsula across to
Knoydart on the mainland was one of the world’s best.

Rhona was inclined to agree.

At moments like this, the idea that she should move back here and live in the family cottage always resurfaced. As it did when she was particularly stressed by work or emotional relationships.
Then the recurring dream of opening this door to see what lay before her now was her brain’s way of escape. But how to be a forensic expert resident on Skye? Rhona smiled at the thought,
although her expertise had been required here on at least one occasion, or more particularly on the neighbouring island of Raasay.

Her survey of the bay was rewarded by the sight of two black silky heads bobbing on the surface, observing her.

They’re back.

Rhona made an instant decision. It might be the last time this year she could do this without dying of hypothermia. She went inside, grabbed her wetsuit from where it hung in the back kitchen,
stripped off and prepared for her swim.

The whiskered faces observed her with interest as she made her way across the strip of sandy shore. The touch of the water as it seeped into the legs of her wetsuit made her gasp. Determined,
she pulled on the hood.
Five minutes. No more than ten
. After which she would have a very hot shower.

As she stepped deeper, the sand shifted to accommodate her weight, the ripples caused by waves reflected on the surface of the water. Her own image as she determinedly moved deeper was as clear
as though she looked in a mirror.

In the hooded wetsuit I look like one of them, although maybe not so plump and thankfully minus the whiskers.

Rhona braced herself, then did a dive, the shock of the cold water on her head seeming momentarily to stop her heart. When she broke surface, gasping, she found the two seals watching her with
avid interest. As Rhona approached them in a steady crawl, they parted company, to each take up a place alongside her, as they had done two days ago.

Then began the performance that had characterized their previous encounter. If she stopped, they stopped, and viewed her. If she didn’t immediately begin swimming again, they ducked and
dived as though to encourage her, or maybe simply to show off their skills. If she swam away from them, they followed, trying to keep her, it seemed, from going ashore. She was their plaything
which they didn’t want to relinquish.

But they had the layers of fat required to survive in a winter sea. She did not.

Ten minutes later, Rhona reluctantly turned and headed for shore. The rule of cold-water swimming was to stop when your skin went from bristling cold to downright painful, and she had now
reached that point. She headed swiftly up the beach to the bright-blue kitchen door. By the time she reached it, she was chittering. Getting the wetsuit off with shivering hands was harder than
putting it on. Eventually she succeeded and headed for the shower, turning it on at full power and as hot as she could manage without scalding herself. A glance in the mirror over the sink as she
stepped in registered blue lips and pale skin.

I look like a mortuary specimen.

This time her gasp was more from pleasure than pain as the hot water met her head and shoulders. As a feeling other than cold took over her body, she laughed.

‘That was great,’ she shouted, as she soaped her tingling skin.

Dressed again, she checked on the fire in the small sitting room to find it had lasted the night banked up by peat. She stirred and replenished it, then set about making breakfast. Back in
Glasgow, breakfast would have consisted of a couple of cups of coffee. Once at the lab, she would eat whatever Chrissy, her forensic assistant, had brought in for them, which could be anything from
a traditional filled morning roll (egg, sausage, bacon or all three) to a simple croissant. Rhona always accepted whatever was on offer.

Here, things were different. No Chrissy to supply breakfast, no calling out for home delivery or Sean to cook an evening meal. On Skye she had to be self-sufficient. She had to shop and
cook.

Rhona set up the frying pan and loaded it with square sausage, tattie scones, a slice of bacon and some mushrooms, then poured herself a coffee to warm her inside as well as out.

Scooping the cooked food onto a plate and slipping it in the oven, she fried two eggs from the supply left at her door by her nearest neighbour, Tam Evans, who had come to Skye from northern
England to keep goats and hens.

Fifteen minutes later she had surprised herself by wolfing down everything she had cooked.

Chrissy and Sean would be proud of me.

The fire had re-caught and was bringing a warm glow to the room. It seemed a shame to leave it, but leave it she must. It was a long drive back to Glasgow, and she was keen to set out as soon
now as possible. As she began her packing, the room darkened as a sudden squall came in from the west, splattering thick drops of rain on the window. The bay she’d swum in earlier and the
distant outline of Knoydart were both shrouded in mist. Her playmates too had gone.

Packed and ready to leave, Rhona fetched her mobile and made a call. With luck she would be back in the city by early afternoon.

The cat was eyeing him with what McNab decided was a malicious green stare. It stood at the bedroom door, tail upright, the tip swishing the air in what looked like a warning.
McNab wasn’t fond of cats in general. This one he positively disliked.

And the feeling is definitely mutual.

Since Freya had brought the cat back to stay at her flat, there was now no avoiding it. Smart, it ignored McNab when Freya was about, lavishing its affection on her, so that it appeared docile
and lovable. McNab knew the opposite to be the truth.

He had been the one to find the cat standing guard over the body of its former mistress, Leila Hardy. He had seen the cat defend her remains with the ferocity of a panther. He knew the
cat’s past and its true character. He also knew that it didn’t want him around. It had made that quite plain, to McNab at least.

McNab had made a joke of it at first, then declared outright that the cat didn’t like him.

Freya had observed him with those thoughtful eyes, then said, ‘I owe it to Leila to give him a home.’

And she was right. Leila had been a colleague and a fellow Wiccan and she was dead.

McNab decided after that to keep his mouth shut regarding the cat. As long as Freya didn’t invite it into the bedroom with them, he could live with its malevolent presence, although
enticing Freya back to his own flat was now the preferable option for their nights together.

McNab turned from the cat as his mobile rang. The name on the screen was Rhona. McNab answered with a smile.

‘Dr MacLeod.
Ciamar a tha thu?
’

There was a short silence as she digested his attempt at a Gaelic greeting. If she answered him back in the same language he was sunk.

‘I’m fine. Thank you. And yourself?’

‘Okay, although there is currently a large black cat considering whether to launch itself at my throat.’

‘It’s still there?’

‘You bet it is and with no thoughts of leaving.’

‘How’s that working out?’

‘It’s not allowed in the bedroom, when I’m here at least.’

‘You told Freya the reason why?’

‘I did.’

‘And how did she react?’

‘I won’t say she didn’t look intrigued.’

‘But you stood firm?’

‘Stand firm, that’s my motto,’ McNab said.

There was a muffled sound from Rhona’s end, which might have been smothered laughter.

‘You sound happy,’ McNab said.

‘I am.’

‘When is the island idyll over?’

‘I’ll be back early afternoon. Anything happened while I’ve been away?’

‘A drugs bust at Excalibur. A six-car pile-up on the Kingston Bridge. Some trouble at the footie . . . Nothing that would interest you or we’d have called you back.’ He paused.
‘Sean there with you?’ he asked, knowing full well from Chrissy that he wasn’t. Something he took a perverse pleasure in, without wishing to examine the reason why.

‘No.’

‘See you soon then.’

She rang off, leaving McNab wondering what the phone call was really about. The fact that Rhona had contacted him at all was surprising. But he was glad that they were back on speaking
terms.

The cat was still sitting in the bedroom doorway as though on sentry duty. The green eyes narrowed as they met his.

It’s putting the evil eye on me
, he thought and not for the first time.

The cat, who apparently went by the name of Styx, had been used in Leila Hardy’s sex magick games. Having a big black moggy sitting on your face during sex, its claws raking your shoulder,
had apparently been a turn-on for some of Leila’s male companions. Or maybe it had been a turn-on for her.

Last night, when McNab had finally told Freya why he didn’t want the cat in the bedroom with them, she’d seemed intrigued.

‘I’ve never heard of a cat being used in sex magick before,’ she’d said.

Having declared his aversion to the cat’s presence, McNab had then made it obvious he didn’t mind the other Wiccan practices that Freya indulged in during sex.

At that she had led him into the bedroom and closed the door firmly on the cat.

‘So I’m still in charge here,’ McNab told the watching cat.

But for how long?

The cat swished its tail at him, then sprang past to meet Freya as she emerged from the box room that served as her Wiccan temple. McNab watched as his rival used all his feline powers on Freya.
Rubbing himself between her legs, miaowing up at her with those green eyes. Freya responded by scooping the cat into her arms and nuzzling it.