Dead but not Buried Read online

  Dead but not Buried

  By Iain North

  Copyright 2011 Iain North

  Published by Amenta/Fiction, an imprint of Amenta Publishing

  *****

  Chapter 1

  ‘Just drive,’ she said.

  Billy didn’t ask a second time. The girl looked in no mood for questions.

  He slipped the gear stick up into fifth and pressed the accelerator down. A look in the mirror, a glance stolen at his passenger, then he returned his attention to the dark road ahead.

  ‘Do you mind if I put the radio on?’ he asked, rubbing tired eyes. ‘Or maybe a CD?’

  Why was he asking? It was his car.

  The girl shrugged her skinny shoulders. ‘I’m no’ bothered.’

  Billy tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, whistled a couple of notes silently.

  ‘Where are you from?’ he asked tentatively.

  She shrugged again, and then turned to him. ‘Where are you going?’ She snapped the question out. Her voice was soft, but there was a hard edge to her speech.

  ‘Torridon, climbing. It should be a good weekend.’

  Like she was really interested in his plans, Billy thought.

  She returned her gaze to the dashboard, his suspicion confirmed.

  He turned the radio on. The speakers crackled, reception was poor. Hardly surprising, they were in the middle of the Scottish Highlands. He selected a CD from the luminous green fascia menu.

  Texas. The Hush.

  His passenger turned her pert little nose up at his choice of music.

  ‘You don’t like Texas?’

  ‘They’re okay, I suppose,’ she said grudgingly.

  ‘I can put something else on.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No.’ Her quiet voice tailed off.

  Billy tried to grab a glimpse of her eyes. They were blue, but there was no sparkle beneath those sad, heavy lids. She was pretty, but only because she was young. In a few years time, he thought, the dark lines beneath her eyes would prematurely age her whole face.

  She wore faded grey leggings, a baggy jumper several sizes too big for her diminutive frame and a padded sleeveless jacket.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ she retorted.

  ‘I could pull over here and let you off, if you want.’

  He slowed the car down to reinforce his threat.

  Pleading: ‘No!’

  The car gathered momentum again.

  Why did he pick her up? She had been standing by road at Shiel Bridge. Her skinny thumb stuck out. It was raining heavily and there was no other traffic on the road at the time. He didn’t usually pick up hitchhikers, but he thought a little conversation would speed up the journey.

  In truth, he relished some female company. He pulled over. She got in. No luggage. No destination.

  ‘What’s your name?’ He was curious.

  The girl picked nervously at a cut on the back of her hand.

  ‘Sam. Why?’

  ‘Just trying to make conversation.’

  A sign for Stromeferry appeared in the headlights. Billy indicated for the junction ahead.

  ‘I’m going this way.’

  Sam shrugged. ‘Whatever.’

  They left the shores of Loch Alsh, the road climbing steeply into the mountains. The landscape was desolate. Open moor, a small loch and rocks.

  The engine strained. Billy slipped down a gear and the car surged forward. He mapped out the route up Liathach in his head and said a small prayer for good weather. He didn’t know what Sam was thinking.

  ‘You could get a train at Strathcarron. That would take you to Inverness.’ A helpful suggestion, he thought.

  ‘Maybe.’ Sam was still picking the gash. Blood was now oozing gently from it.

  ‘There will be plenty of traffic tomorrow; fish lorries, that sort of thing. You should have no problem getting another lift.’

  She nodded without enthusiasm.

  The incline eased off and Billy put the car back into fifth. He reached forward and turned the volume on the stereo up a notch or two.

  Summer Son.

  Fifteen minutes later Billy pulled up by the hotel next to the railway station.

  ‘There you go.’

  *****

  Chapter 2

  ‘What is this place?’

  ‘They used to make oil rigs here.’ The local journalist answered Jim Buchan’s question. ‘It’s been on care-and-maintenance for the past 10 years.’

  Jim peered through the chain-link fence. There was little to see. Certainly no sign of any oil rigs.

  ‘They built the largest concrete platform in the world here in the 1970s.

  Jim turned to his informant. ‘Fascinating.’

  ‘You did ask.’

  It was six in the morning. A damp blanket of west coast mist hung in the air. Jim hadn’t eaten any breakfast; a couple of Marlboro Lights sufficed.

  ‘I’d kill for a coffee,’ he sighed.

  Muttered agreement came from the Press pack gathered at the yard gates. There were five of them in total - a reporter and cameraman from STV, the local hack, a young girl from the Press & Journal and Jim.

  He’d taken the call from the news desk in Glasgow an hour ago. Why on earth had he chosen to spend his weekend in Wester Ross? More importantly, why had he not turned his mobile off? He was supposed to be a holiday.

  He shuffled his feet to circulate some warmth to his departing nether regions.

  ‘What are we looking at?’ It was the guy from STV, the one Jim loathed with a passion whenever he saw him on screen. Dave McKay. It was nothing personal, just his delivery; too many bad puns.

  The local reporter spoke again. He was an older chap, in his fifties, clad in a damp tweed jacket that probably had to be surgically removed if ever he needed to take it off. His name was George Cameron. He had covered this patch all his life for the West Highland Weekly News.

  ‘The police found a body in the dry-dock,’ George continued.

  ‘So he didn’t drown then.’ McKay was attempting humour again. Jim felt his right fist tighten.

  ‘It’s known as the dry-dock, but it has been flooded since the yard closed. They built the Ninian Central in it.’

  ‘The largest concrete platform in the world,’ Jim interrupted.

  George nodded. ‘That’s why the yard opened in the first place.’

  ‘Do we know who it is? Kate Lorimer from the P&J had her notepad and pen poised.

  George shook his head.

  Jim took out his cigarettes and offered the pack round. Only George took one. Jim lit it for him.

  ‘Who’s your top cop here?’

  ‘Eddie Macdonald,’ George coughed. ‘He’s the inspector at Kyle of Lochalsh. I’ll try and grab a word with him.’

  Jim drew deeply on his cigarette and nodded.

  The STV cameraman piped up: ‘Will he let us in?’

  ‘Maybe… once they’ve brought the body out.’

  ‘Is there nowhere we can get a better view?’ Jim was tired of standing about in the cold doing nothing.

  ‘From the sea, I suppose,’ George said helpfully, adding: ‘If we had a boat. Or up the mountain.’

  He pointed towards what should have been an impressive craggy peak rising up behind them. But the curtain was down and its dramatic presence was lost completely to the mist. Scotland never looked quite like this in the tourist brochures.

  Jim’s mind returned to hot coffee.

  McKay broke the silence. ‘Where are you working now, eh Jim? The Sunday Post?’

  The fist was tightening again - he was a smug little bastard.

  ‘Can you do your pieces to camera from the intensive care unit now, Dave?’

  McKay
’s grin disappeared, to be replaced by a smirk. ‘I just wondered.’

  ‘I’m freelancing,’ Jim muttered.

  A dark blue Royal Navy van crunched though the gravel behind them. Jim flicked his half-smoked cigarette away. The STV camera was hoisted up.

  ‘Divers,’ George confirmed.

  The van passed without stopping. A police constable opened the gate to let it into the yard.

  ‘Progress,’ the old man added optimistically.

  Jim took out another cigarette and lit up.

  George left the Press pack and wandered over to the officer on gate duty. Jim watched hopefully as the pair chatted for a moment. George walked back. Kate took out her pen.

  ‘He’s going to ask Eddie to come and have a word with us.’

  ‘Great.’ Jim watched as the constable lifted his radio to his mouth.

  Fifteen minutes crawled by.

  A police Land Rover appeared on the other side of the gate. Eddie Macdonald decanted himself from the vehicle and strolled over. His eyes settled first on George.

  ‘I thought this one might have been a bit early in the day for you.’

  George chuckled. ‘You know me, Eddie. I’m always available once the pubs have closed.’

  ‘Well boys.’ Macdonald spotted Kate at the back of the group. ‘And girls. What brings you to this lonely outpost of the empire? Don’t tell me, there’s a potato shaped like an erect penis in the women’s rural produce competition.’

  ‘We’re told you’ve found a body.’ Kate was not one to waste time on informal pleasantries.

  ‘And who told you that?’ Macdonald wasn’t to be denied the pleasure of teasing journalists. The opportunities on his remote beat were clearly few and far between and he couldn’t remember the last time he had national hacks on his patch.

  But she just stared at him blankly.

  ‘Well, Miss?’

  She pursed her thin lips. ‘Lorimer.’

  ‘Well, Miss Lorimer, you’ve won the holiday for two on our special murder mystery weekend.’

  He turned to George. ‘You’re quick of the mark. I hope you haven’t been using the scanner again.’

  ‘Would I?’ George was almost convincing.

  Macdonald returned his attention to Kate Lorimer. Formal statement: ‘I can confirm that at around 5am today a body was discovered in the dock.’

  ‘Are we looking at murder?’ George asked.

  ‘It’s too early to say, but we are treating the death as suspicious. We’ll need to carry out a post mortem before we know more.’

  ‘Any thoughts about the cause of death, inspector?’ Macdonald glanced at the camera perched behind McKay.

  ‘As I said, we need to carry out a post mortem. For all we know at this stage the guy could have wandered down here and just fallen into the water.’

  Jim glanced at the heavy chain-link fence and solid metal gate.

  ‘Who found the body?’ McKay asked.

  ‘A contractor. He’s staying in a caravan on the site, doing some maintenance work on the piers. He got up for a piss...’ Macdonald remembered the camera. ‘He got up early and saw something floating on the water.’

  ‘We saw the divers going in.’ Jim prompted.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Do you have a name for the dead man?’ Jim continued.

  ‘We’ll give you that later, once the next of kin have been informed.’

  ‘Is he local?’

  Macdonald shook his head. ‘As far as we know, he is from Glasgow.’

  ‘Any other details you can give us?’ McKay was obviously anxious to wrap things up and stick his own mug in front of the camera.

  ‘All can tell you is that he was 21 years old. You’ll get a name later.’ Macdonald glanced back at his Land Rover. ‘I hope that helps you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘Thanks, mate.’ George nodded and tucked his scuffed notepad back into the pocket of his tweed coat.

  Macdonald strode back into the yard and the constable rattled the gate firmly closed behind him.

  ‘Okay, Jed.’ McKay was in director mode now. ‘I’ll do a piece to camera here, with the policeman on the gate behind me.’

  ‘How many pisspoor puns can you get in on this one, mate?’ Jim mocked.

  ‘Fuck off!’ McKay was leading Jed over to the gate, the line to his microphone dragging the poor cameraman along like a dog on a leash.

  ‘Wanker,’ George muttered, shaking his head.

  Jim scrabbled about in his pocket. ‘Watch this.’

  Jed was setting his camera up on a tripod while McKay was battling the wind to comb his blond hair into place. The policeman standing behind him was trying not to look like a spare part.

  ‘Okay?’ McKay pressed impatiently.

  ‘When you are.’ The tape was rolling.

  McKay cleared his throat and lowered his voice an octave or two. ‘The grisly find was made here at the remote Kishorn oil rig yard by a worker during the early hours of the morning. Police are now...’

  Suddenly his TV tone was interrupted by the shrill call of a mobile telephone playing the William Tell Overture.

  ‘Fuck!’ McKay plunged a hand into the pocket of his immaculate Berghaus cagoule and hauled the offending handset out.

  ‘Yes?’ he barked angrily.

  ‘Wanker!’ Jim laughed down his phone.

  McKay threw him a raised finger. ‘Fuck off!’

  *****

  George thrust a fat brown envelope into Jim’s hands. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Everything you ever wanted to know about the Kishorn yard. Have a seat… if you can find one.’

  Jim cleared a space on George’s overflowing desk and emptied the contents of the envelope out on to the scored wooden surface. There was a mix of photocopied A4 sheets, some glossy brochures and a wad of frayed yellow news cuttings.

  ‘You did ask.’ George was spooning Nescafe into two chipped mugs.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Milk and no sugar?’

  Jim nodded.

  ‘One lump or two?’

  ‘I said no sugar.’

  ‘I’m talking about the milk.’

  Jim wrinkled his face up in disgust. ‘I’ll take it black.’

  He was sifting through some recent clippings on top of the pile as George placed the mug down on the desk.

  ‘Good news, eh?’ the old man said, pointing to the story on the top of the pile.

  The headline read: ‘600 jobs as yard re-opens.’ It was a cutting from the Scottish Daily Mail from just a few weeks back.

  ‘It’s going to re-open?’ Jim asked.

  George nodded. ‘You’ll find a more detailed article from the News in there somewhere.’

  Jim read the Mail piece first. ‘Loch Kishorn Contracts Limited has signed a 10-year lease to repair, construct and decommission oil rigs and platforms at the former Howard Doris deep water site at Loch Kishorn in the West Highlands.’

  ‘I guess that is good news for the area,’ he remarked on completing the opening paragraph.

  ‘You’d have thought so, wouldn’t you?’ George blew over the surface of his steaming coffee. ‘But unfortunately not everyone agrees.’

  He leaned across the desk, pulled another cutting from the pile and handed it to Jim. ‘Here.’

  The headline read: ‘Kishorn plans spark environmental protest.’

  There was a picture of some unkempt greenies gathered at the gate where Jim had been standing a cold hour or so ago.

  ‘People here are all for it,’ George continued. ‘But these days wherever you have oil rigs you have groups like Greenpeace kicking up a fuss.’

  ‘Is this Greenpeace?’ Jim asked, pointing at the grainy black and white photo.

  ‘No, they are just a band of students. You know the sort, they come up from the city and try and dictate what we dumb Highlanders can do with our land.’ George sipped his coffee and screwed up his face.
‘Yuck! The milk’s a bit off.’