Chapter 5

BLACK wraithlike shapes drifted through the dunes, a ragged line of uni- formed police officers like a funeral procession. Angus sat a couple of feet from Gills on a large barnacle-studded rock in the lee of the wind. An awk- ward silence had descended, the partial estrangement of the past five years wedged between them. Farther along the beach, the small white tent erected by forensics to protect the girl’s body from the elements bucked and jerked, a tethered animal.

Angus gazed at the point where the sea kissed the horizon and thought of Tír na nÓg, the mythological Celtic otherworld that Gills had taught him about. It was said to be an island paradise, a realm of everlasting youth, beauty, joy, and abundance. If he were to wade into the sea now and keep on swimming, would he reach it?

Gills gave his shoulder a brief squeeze. “Are you all right, old bean?”

“Aye,” Angus mumbled.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sensed movement at the tent. He turned and saw the pathologist emerge. Dr. Orla Kelly tugged down the hood of her white Tyvek suit, unleashing her corkscrew blond curls. She stood for a second, staring out to sea, then turned and beckoned him over.

He crunched across the shingle towards her.

“Christ! I need a stiff gin after that,” she said in a thick Irish accent. “Bad?”

“You know yourself, Angus. The young ones are the worst.”

Aye.

Orla wrapped her arms around herself.

“Come on, I’ll show you.”

He hesitated for a beat too long and Orla noticed his reluctance. “You don’t have to—”

“No, it’s okay.”

She gave him a sympathetic smile, then disappeared back inside the tent. He steeled himself, then pulled back the flap and entered.

The girl lay exactly where he had left her, on her back on the shingle, the green cloak like a mound of moss growing over her body. Her wrists were still bound, but plastic bags had been secured over her hands to preserve evidence. For a brief second, he saw her pulling a comb through her horse’s mane. Bessie, the mare had been called.

“She was found farther down the beach?” Orla asked.

“Aye. Underwater now. There were no signs of blood on the sand, though. Deposition site, most likely, although there were no footprints in the sand.”

Orla frowned. “I’ll leave that conundrum to you lot. Who’s SIO?”

“No idea. Local CID should be here soon, then whatever major investi- gation team is free.”

“They’ll all be after this one, if the victim’s who you say she is,” Orla mused. “That geebag McQueen, Stirling, Bennet . . . something this high-profile, we might even get Crowley.”

He nodded, although the last name was the only one he recognised. He couldn’t wait until the MIT arrived. Yes, he’d still be involved in the case, but as a constable, it would be a minor role. Pointless house-to-house inquiries. Manning a police cordon like a spare part. It suited him fine.

“I’ve a daughter around her age,” Orla said in an almost-whisper. “She’s a stroppy wee cow at times, but—” Orla let the sentence hang in the air.

They stood in silence for a moment, then a switch seemed to flip and the pathologist was all detached professionalism.

“Deceased has suffered several blows to the back of the head, but cause of death appears to be strangulation by garrotte.”

The ligature was still intact, a few inches spiralling from her slit throat. Something about the garrotte bothered him. Subconsciously, he’d noticed this earlier, but only now did he realize what it was—the ligature had an unusual fibrous texture and was an almost translucent light brown colour. “I haven’t encountered many garrottes,” he said, “but I’d expect them to be made of wire, nylon, or cord. That’s none of those.”

Angus realized he was rubbing his own neck. He let his hand fall to his side.

Orla dropped to her haunches and inspected the garrotte with a gloved hand. “You’re right. I’m not sure what material this is. I’ll extract it when I get her back to the mortuary, and run some tests.”

She stood, hands on hips. “No obvious defensive wounds. Signs of trauma to the back of the skull, around this area”—she pointed to a section of the girl’s head where her fair hair was matted with blood—“suggest she was struck from behind with a bladed object. The blows would likely have incapacitated the victim rather than killed her, but I can’t say with any degree of certainty until the postmortem examination.”

“Time of death?”

Orla stood, folded her arms. “She’s been dead for between twelve and fourteen hours.”

He glanced at his watch. It was just after noon, meaning she had been killed between midnight on Friday and two a.m. on Saturday morning.

Too late. Always too late. He could taste the acrid words in his mouth.

Suddenly the hair on the nape of his neck stood on end. Over Orla’s shoulder, he saw a shadow pass outside the tent, an elongated stick figure that made no sound on the shingle.

He felt Orla grip his arm. “You okay, pal?”

He refocused on the pathologist.

“Aye, fine.”

Orla eyed him for a long second, then returned her attention to the body. “That’s some getup she’s wearing. Mind you, it was Halloween last night.” He had been wondering about the cloak. It looked like something a Hobbit would wear, but he hadn’t made the connection to Halloween.

He imagined her dancing, spinning around in her silver dress, light burst- ing from her like a supernova. A few short hours later she would be dead. A cold husk to be prodded, photographed, and processed.

You could have saved me!

Her voice rippled around the enclosure.

“Thanks, Orla,” he muttered, then swept from the tent. Outside, he sucked in a mouthful of salty air.

“Constable MacNeil!” The familiar high-pitched accent of Inspector Stout carried to him on the wind. Angus closed his eyes, muttered a curse under his breath.

He turned and watched his boss waddle, stiff-legged, towards him. The marram grass on top of the dunes bristled in the wind, like a cat’s hackles rising.

Stout stopped a few feet away, spat, then snatched the tweed fisherman’s bonnet from his head and swiped a sleeve across his sweaty brow. He replaced his trademark hat and eyeballed Angus.

“Do you not answer your phone, Constable? I’ve called you about a hun- dred times.”

“Left it at home. Doubt there’s reception here anyway, sir.”

“For God’s sake! I’ve ruined my good brogues coming all the way down here. All because you forgot your bloody phone.” He sniffed, contemplating his muddy shoes. “Weren’t cheap, these boys. Real Italian leather, so they are.”

“Err, sorry, I think.”

The short rotund man glared up at him. “And where’s your uniform, Constable? You look like you just fell out of bed.”

“It’s my day off, sir.”

Stout sniffed again. “Not anymore. The uniforms tell me the victim is Chichester’s girl? That right?”

“Aye, sir.”

“For God’s sake, MacNeil! This is going to cause mayhem!”

He knew why Stout was irked. The murder would generate a huge

amount of media interest and extra work, which in turn would keep Stout away from fly-fishing.

“Who found the body?”

Angus jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards Gills. “A local walking his dogs. He’s a friend, lectures at the uni in Silvaig. . . .”

“Okay, okay, MacNeil. I don’t need his life story.”

Stout fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a squashed packet of Pall Malls. He took out a bent cigarette and turned his back on the prevailing wind to light it.

“Bad news,” he said, after taking a deep draw. “The MIT has been delayed. Accident on the A82. Road’s closed. Motorcyclist played chicken with the Sheil bus to Glasgow and lost. They’ll be scraping him off the tarmac for a good few hours yet, which means we have to tell the laird his daughter is dead before he hears about it on Nevis Radio.”