Deadly Code (11 page)

Chapter 18

Rhona spread the newspaper open on the bed. The article was front page news.

Police confirmed today that forensic tests on the human body parts caught in a fisherman's nets in Raasay Sound and on two beaches on Skye, belong to a Polish fisherman reported missing from a factory ship. A spokesman for the MOD, who have a presence in the area, said this confirmed the truth of their denial that a British submarine had been involved in a fishing incident in Raasay Sound.

The photograph of Phillips next to the article showed him to be perfectly relaxed about the MOD's version of the truth. For a brief moment Rhona contemplated the notion that Phillips might be speaking in good faith. After all, she had told no one officially about the ReAlba tattoo, not even Bill Wilson.

No. The reaction of Phillips to her announcement of the name MacAulay had been too strong a signal that the Ministry of Defence had another agenda. One she was not party to.

Mrs MacMurdo had already delivered tea and a morning paper, fresh from the ferry, and told her breakfast would be ready in fifteen minutes.

The plate was large and well stocked. No acres of empty white porcelain around a slither of bacon for Mrs MacMurdo's guests. Rhona ignored the calorie and cholesterol count and tucked in. If she was planning walking detective work, she would need it. Besides, fresh highland air made you remember your appetite.

Mrs MacMurdo left her to demolish her traditional Scottish breakfast and reappeared with a fresh pot of tea directly Rhona placed her knife and fork side by side on her plate.

'I'll be busy now with the Post Office,' she said, lifting the plate and encouraging Rhona to have more toast. 'I never lock the door, so you can come and go as you please.'

Rhona thanked her and said something about a walk. Mrs MacMurdo nodded and asked her where on Skye she was from. Rhona wasn't surprised. She hadn't lived on Skye since she was five and her father only returned there after he retired, but the closer she got to home the more she suspected her voice echoed its origins. Once her parentage was examined and established, Mrs MacMurdo wished her a fine day and left.

Back in her room, Rhona mused over her life story as known by Mrs MacMurdo. Her father had been that nice man from Driesh Cottage, who died two years ago. He had only one daughter, she was in the Forensic Service in Glasgow.

'Aye, your father was keen on the walking and fishing,' Mrs MacMurdo had told her. 'We've missed seeing him around here.' She paused. 'Still, it's nice to finally meet that daughter he talked about so much.'

Rhona tried not to think about the number of times she had planned to come and stay with her father for some fishing and walking and had failed to do so, usually because of work.

You'll be glad you weren't here last week,' Mrs MacMurdo went on. 'The place was swarming with police from the mainland trying to find the rest of that poor soul's body.'

She pointed at the newspaper on the chair beside Rhona. 'Now they're saying it was a Polish fisherman from one of those big factory ships.' Mrs MacMurdo did not look convinced. 'Of course, with all those tests you do, I'm sure you know more than the likes of me.'

Her landlady didn't wait for a reply but hurried off to answer the bell from one of her Post Office customers.

Rhona was inclined to agree. Unless there was an active branch of ReAlba in Poland, the foot had not belonged to a Polish factory fisherman. It might suit the MOD to support such a story, but Rhona wasn't in the business of making up identities for dead people. And neither, normally, was DI Wilson.

One thing was certain. If Dr Fitzgerald MacAulay had been part of the life of this island or one nearby, Mrs MacMurdo would be the woman to know about it.

Before she set off on her walk, Rhona checked her computer for emails. There was one from Chrissy, outlining what the official position was on the body parts and did Rhona want her to drop the tattoo bombshell?

An email from Sean had been sent from some downtown Cybercafé. Word on the street was that the jazz club, Sean, and by association, Rhona, had been set up. He asked if Rhona knew anything about a Joe Maley who was rumoured to be running a west coast drugs business.

Jesus. Joe Maley. Sentenced to five years . . . Rhona counted up . . . approximately three years ago. That was one prison release either Bill Wilson had missed or else had chosen not to tell her about.

And Maley certainly harboured a grudge big enough to set the heather on fire. It was she who had stood in court and provided the evidence that put him away. A forensic examiner finding particles of cocaine on the money his club was laundering didn't help his case. No one believed his innocent plea. His expensive lawyer wasn't expensive enough. Maley's fancy eating place on Byres Road disappeared and he went on the prison payroll.

But how could Joe Maley know that by trying to stitch her up he was playing into the hands of the MOD?

The conspiracy theory was taking over, Rhona decided. She was like that girl on the Glasgow Underground, muttering away to herself, obsessed with being watched. Paranoia on legs.

Rhona switched off the computer and lifted her jacket. What she needed was a good dose of West Highland air to clear her brain.

Early sunshine was shifting the mist and across the water the black topped Cuillin rose like a mirage. Rhona felt unexpectedly happy to be out of the city and on the islands once again, despite the circumstances.

She left the house, shutting the door carefully behind her. Mrs MacMurdo waved out of the Post Office window and Rhona was left in no doubt that the current customer was learning who the latest Bed and Breakfast guest was.

Rhona left the village and followed the path that ran north through woods. After a while she passed an ancient broch with part of the walls and galleries still standing. Inside, there was nothing but time and the sky above. People had lived, loved and died on this island for centuries. Now there were only scattered desolate ruins as a reminder of their lives.

When she reached the southern slopes of Dun Caan, she sat beside a lochan and ate the sandwiches Mrs MacMurdo had given her. It seemed ridiculous to be eating again only two hours after a breakfast fit for two men.

Rhona didn't care.

She lay back against a hillock and closed her eyes.

The sun was warm on her face but a cool wind skimmed the surface of the loch. Somewhere in the far distance a boat chugged through the water. Rhona sat up, thinking it must be the ferry ploughing between Raasay and Skye but it was east of her, moving up the Inner Sound towards the deserted shielings of Screapadal. She pulled out her binoculars and had a look. A woman lay on the deck taking in the sun and a man stood on the bow pointing his binoculars in her direction. Rhona waved in case he had spotted her, then watched the yacht mooch past, keeping close to the cliff as if looking for somewhere to anchor.

Beyond the boat, dark clouds were slowly creeping in from the east. Climbing Dun Caan, she decided, would have to wait for another day.

By the time she reached the tar road, the rain was sweeping in and the waterproof jacket was sending drips down her trouser legs and into her boots. When the jeep drew alongside, Rhona accepted the lift without pausing to gaze up from under her hood. Halfway in, she realised who her Prince Charming was. Norman MacLeod gave her a North Atlantic grin and turned the windscreen wipers to a higher speed.

'The Post Office?' he said.

‘Thanks.'

'No problem. I'm headed for the ferry anyway. Were you climbing Dun Caan?'

'Halfway.'

'You didn't say you were coming to Raasay.' His voice had taken on a semi petulant tone that irritated Rhona slightly. What business was it of his?

'I just took a notion,' she lied.

She glanced sideways, watching him construct a thought before putting it into words.

'You'd better watch Mrs MacMurdo,' he said with a laugh. 'She's a bit of a gossip. I bet she knows your life history by now.'

'Probably. Why are you over here yourself?'

He hadn't expected the question, or at least not its directness.

'Oh, I have one or two friends on the island,' he said in Gaelic. 'I come over from time to time to practise my Gaelic on them.' He laughed. "They tell me I've got a terrible accent.'

Fortunately the Post Office appeared from the sheeting rain before Rhona had to voice an opinion on his accent. She certainly didn't want to have to admit to the fact that his Gaelic sounded pretty good.

'So, are you planning to stay around for a few days?'

Rhona opened the jeep door. 'Probably.' God she sounded cagey. It was difficult not to. 'It depends on the weather,' she added. If in doubt, rely on the weather.

'Yes it can be unpredictable,' he said with humourless understatement.

They observed the downpour together.

'Thanks again for the lift.'

Mrs MacMurdo was waiting in the hall.

'You'll be wanting something hot,' she said firmly. 'Come through to the kitchen when you've changed. I'll put the kettle on.'

Kitchens like Mrs MacMurdo's deserve to be savoured like good food, Rhona decided. The big solid fuel range beamed out comfort. Mrs MacMurdo waved her into a seat and placed a mug of hot tea on the edge of the range beside her. She refilled her own mug and sat herself down opposite Rhona.

'I see you got a lift from the Gaelic teacher from the college,' she said crisply.

'It was lucky he came along. I would have been even more drenched.'

Rhona could sense her landlady had something to say about Norman MacLeod. Whether she would choose to say it was another matter. Rhona decided to clear the air herself.

'I just met Norman yesterday. I dropped into Dad's cottage on the way here.'

Mrs MacMurdo said nothing, but chose to stir purposefully at a bubbling pot. ‘I've made some stew for tea. I hope that will be alright?'

'Great.'

'Oh, and there was a phone call while you were out. It was a man. American. Wouldn't leave his name. Just asked if there was a Rhona MacLeod staying here.'

The word
American
had a disapproving ring to it. If it wasn't Norman MacLeod, Mrs MacMurdo seemed to be saying, then who was it?

Rhona was wondering the same thing.

After eating, Rhona went up to her room. Tucked under the eaves, the window alcove housed a small desk and chair. She had already set up her laptop there.

Watching the soft swell of the water through the Narrows, it was difficult to imagine anything bad happening here. Peace seemed part of the place. Yet the reason most tourists visited these islands was because of their violent history. Every landmark told a horrific tale of clan killing clan. It made Rhona think of ReAlba and the Men of the West, caught in the past, ready to wipe out anyone who wasn't one of their clan. But why use swords when they could manipulate the codes of life itself?

Rhona began work on her paper, trying to ignore all other thoughts. The house sank into silence and she decided Mrs MacMurdo must have gone to bed. She made up her mind that she would speak to her landlady tomorrow about Dr Fitzgerald MacAulay.

Andre said he'd had no luck with his enquiries, but although island people were friendly to strangers, they liked their privacy. To Mrs MacMurdo, Rhona was one of them. Maybe she would confide in Rhona what she would not tell an inquisitive American tourist.

The nightmare that wakened her was the same one. Always the same one. The warmth and comfort of the bedclothes changing into the heavy wet cloying chill of water thick with debris. This time the water was filled with weeds, long tentacles curling round her legs and pulling her down until her lungs ached to burst.

Rhona's eyes flew open. A yellow moon split the darkness and danced its beams through the window. Her hammering heart began to slow. She took three long deep breaths. A clock on the mantelpiece ticked a steady beat and she willed her heart to match.

This was stupid. Ever since she had got involved in this case she had dreamt of drowning. Having recurrent nightmares about the way her forensic victims might have died wasn't the way to stay sane.

Rhona got up and pulled on her dressing gown. Beneath her window, the path left the back door of the Post Office and went eastwards. Mrs MacMurdo had already told her there was a nice walk in that direction. Maybe tomorrow, she promised herself, turning back to her warm bed.

The soft knock on the back door brought her to the window again. Rhona craned her neck trying to see who was standing on the step. The figure was male and not very tall. His face was turned from her, but she had a feeling he was a young man. The knock was louder this time, its echo drifting up the narrow stair.

Rhona waited, silently wondering if she should go and open the door, but the third knock brought movement She heard Mrs MacMurdo's bedroom door open and the swish of her slippers on the polished floor. Then the back door creaked open.

The surprised gasp sent Rhona to her own door and onto the landing. There was such delight in her landlady's voice; the visitor was someone she was pleased to see, whatever the hour. She ushered him inside. Rhona chanced a view, but the hall light was dim and the young man was quickly taken into the kitchen and the door shut behind him.