‘Suspicious?’ I asked.
‘Doesn’t sound like it. Might be suicide, but more likely to be a drunk or a vagrant who fell asleep too close to a campfire. Dog walker found it at an abandoned croft and called it in. He’s a retired DI, lives out there now. I’ve worked with him. Used to be a good man.’
I wondered if the used to be was significant. ‘So what else did he say about it?’
There was a beat before he replied. ‘Just that it’s badly burned. But I don’t want to pull resources away from a major incident unless I have to. A couple of the local boys from Stornoway are going out by ferry later today, and I’d like you to go with them and take a look. See if you think it’s low priority, or if I need to send a SOC team. I’d like an expert assessment before I press the panic button, and Allan Campbell says you’re bloody good.’
The attempt at flattery sat awkwardly with his bluff manner. I’d noticed the hesitation when I’d asked about the body, too, and wondered if there was something he wasn’t telling me. But if Wallace thought there was anything suspicious about the death, he’d be sending a Scene of Crime team, train crash or not.
The taxi was almost at the airport. I had every reason to say no. I’d only just finished working on one major investigation, and this sounded fairly mundane: the sort of everyday tragedy that never makes it into the newspapers. I thought about having to tell Jenny that I wouldn’t be back today after all. Given the amount of time I’d spent away recently, I knew that wouldn’t go down well.
Wallace must have sensed my reluctance. ‘Should only take a couple of days, including getting out there. The thing is, it sounds as if there might be something…odd about it.’
‘I thought you said it wasn’t suspicious?’
‘It isn’t. At least, nothing I’ve heard makes me think it is. Look, I don’t want to say too much, but that’s why I’d like an expert such as yourself to take a look.’
I hate being manipulated. Even so, I couldn’t deny my curiosity had been aroused.
‘I wouldn’t ask if we weren’t hard pressed right now,’ Wallace added, turning the screw another notch.
Outside the rain-smeared taxi window I saw a road sign saying the airport was approaching. ‘I’ll have to get back to you,’ I said. ‘Give me five minutes.’
He didn’t like that, but he could hardly object. I rang off, biting my lip for a moment before dialling a number I knew off by heart.
Jenny’s voice came on the line. I smiled at the sound of it, even though I wasn’t looking forward to the conversation we were about to have.
‘David! I was just on my way to work. Where are you?’
‘On my way to the airport.’
I heard her laugh. ‘Thank God for that. I thought you were phoning to say you weren’t coming back today after all.’
I felt my stomach sink. ‘Actually that’s what I’m calling about,’ I said. ‘The thing is, I’ve just been asked to go on another job.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s just for a day or two. In the Outer Hebrides. But there’s no one else to do it right now.’ I stopped myself from explaining about the train crash, knowing it would sound as though I was making excuses.
There was a pause. I hated the way the laughter had gone from Jenny’s voice. ‘So what did you say?’
‘That I’d let them know. I wanted to talk to you first.’
‘Why? We both know you’ve already made up your mind.’
I didn’t want this to develop into an argument. I glanced at the cab driver again.
‘Look, Jenny…’
‘You mean you haven’t?’
I hesitated.
‘That’s what I thought,’ she said.
‘Jenny…’
‘I’ve got to go. I’ll be late for work.’
There was a click as she hung up. I sighed. The day wasn’t getting off to a good start. So call her back and say you’ll turn it down. My finger poised over the phone.
‘Don’t worry, pal. My wife’s always giving me a hard time too,’ the taxi driver said over his shoulder. ‘She’ll get over it, eh?’
I made a non-committal comment. In the distance I could see a plane taking off from the airport. The driver indicated for the turn as I keyed in the number. It was answered on the first ring.
‘How do I get there?’ I asked Wallace.
CHAPTER 2
I SPEND MOST of my working day with the dead. The long dead, sometimes. I’m a forensic anthropologist. It’s a field of expertise, and a fact of life, that most people prefer not to confront until they have to. For a while I was one of them. When my wife and daughter were killed in a car crash, working in a field that reminded me every day of what I’d lost was too painful. So I became a GP, a doctor of medicine tending to the living rather than the dead.
But then events occurred that forced me to take up my original vocation once again. My calling, you might say. Part pathology, part archaeology, what I do goes beyond either. Because even after human biology has broken down, when what was once a life is reduced to corruption, decay and old, dry bones, the dead can still bear witness. They can still tell a story, if only you know how to interpret it. That’s what I do.
Coax the dead to tell their story.
Wallace had obviously anticipated that I wouldn’t turn him down. A seat had already been booked for me on a flight to Lewis, the main island in the Outer Hebrides. The flight was delayed by almost an hour because of bad weather, so I sat in the departure lounge, trying not to watch as the London flight I should have been on was called, closed, and finally disappeared from the board.
It was a bumpy ride, whose only redeeming feature was that it was short. The day was half gone by the time I caught a taxi from the airport to the ferry terminal at Stornoway, a dour working town still largely dependent on the fishing industry. The dock where I was dropped off was misty and cold, pungent with the usual harbour fug of diesel and fish. I’d been expecting to board one of the big car ferries that belched smoke into the rainy sky above the grey harbour, but the boat I found myself standing before looked more like a small fishing vessel than anything meant to carry passengers. Only the distinctive presence of a police Range Rover taking up most of the deck told me I was at the right place.
A boarding ramp led up to it, rocking queasily in the heavy swell. A uniformed police sergeant was standing on the concrete quayside at the bottom, hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat. His cheeks and nose had the permanent flush of broken capillaries. Pouchy eyes regarded me balefully over a salt and pepper moustache as I wrestled with my bag and flight case.
‘You Dr Hunter? I’m Sergeant Fraser,’ he informed me, gruffly. There was no first name, and his hands remained in his pockets. He spoke with a hard, almost nasal burr, very different to the mainland Scottish accents I’d heard. ‘We’ve been waiting for you to turn up.’
With that, he went back up the ramp, making no offer to help with my heavy luggage. I hefted the shoulder bag and aluminium flight case and started up after him. The ramp was wet and slippery, rising and falling unevenly with the slap of the waves. I struggled to keep my footing, trying to time my steps with the unsteady motion. Then someone was trotting down the ramp to help. A young uniformed constable grinned as he took the flight case from my hand.
‘Here, I’ll take that.’
I didn’t argue. He went over to the Range Rover strapped to the deck and loaded the case into the back.
‘What have you got in here, a body?’ he asked, cheerfully.
I put my bag in with the aluminium case. ‘No, it just feels like it. Thanks.’
‘No problem.’ He couldn’t have been much older than twenty. He had a friendly, open face, and his uniform looked neat even in the rain. ‘I’m PC McKinney, but just call me Duncan.’
‘David Hunter.’
His handshake was enthusiastic, as though to make up for Fraser’s lack. ‘So you the forensic man?’
‘Afraid so.’
‘Great! I mean, not great, but…well, you know. Anyway, let’s get out of the rain.’