The Peat Dead

The Peat Dead

By

Allan Martin

T

hunderPoint Publishing Ltd.

***

First Published in Great Britain in 2019 by

ThunderPoint Publishing Limited

Summit House

4-5 Mitchell Street

Edinburgh

Scotland EH6 7BD

Copyright © Allan Martin 2019

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved.

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of the work.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and locations are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and a product of the author’s creativity.

Cover Image © Willy S

used under license from Shutterstock.com

Cover Design © Huw Francis

ISBN: 978-1-910946-54-1 (Paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-910946-55-8 (eBook)

www.thunderpoint.scot

***

Acknowledgements

My first and constant thanks must be to Vivien: my muse, my First Reader (and critic), my first believer, and my constant encouragement.

I also need to thank the friends who also believed in me from the beginning: Val Renahan, Duncan Martin, Jill Henderson, and Helen B (as well as for her advice and experience in police procedures).

Crime writers are surprisingly supportive of newcomers, and I’m grateful to the authors who’ve provided encouragement along the way, especially Alex Sokoloff, Craig Robertson, Alex Gray, Lin Anderson, Sarah Ward, Doug Johnstone (anonymously); and there are plenty of others.

Of course, this wouldn’t have happened without Seonaid Francis at ThunderPoint recognising something worth reading, and suggesting how it might be more readable.

***

Dedication

To Vivien, Alison and Calum, with love.

***

Map of Islay

***

Prologue

Islay. The sun shines. In the air, the flavour of salt and of whisky. On the edge of the muir, two men work. With the long, sharp peat spades they are lifting thick shards, moist and deep brown, flicking them over to the top of the cutting, laying each aslant on the previous one, so that the wind will hustle through to dry them out, ready for the fire next year. Thomas and Robert McRae, men of Islay, Ìleachs, brothers.

Thomas is near the end of the line they have marked out for digging. As he lifts a long slab and twists the spade with age-old skill, the peat crumbles, scatters, falls to either side, spills back down the cliff-edge of the cutting. He turns to call to his brother.

Rab, he says, The peat’s aa messed here. Something’s up wi it.

So he’s not looking as he slices the sharp spade into the dark peat again, and he feels this time that the blade has cut through an obstacle. Maybe a root. Instead of flicking the slab over, he pauses to inspect it on the spade. Again the peat crumbles and falls away. And on the bright steel of his spade a human hand, brown as the peat. As the hand seems to twitch (or is it a tic of his nervous arm?) it slides off the spade and falls, as if grasping for a handhold, to lie, palm upward, on the black earth.

***

Day 1. Thursday

1

Late morning, September.

The view from the fourth floor of the Oban Police Station was spectacular. You could see from the harbour all the way round to the Cathedral and the Corran Halls. You could see the ferries coming in and out, the top end of Kerrera, with the yachts clustered in the marina, and further off, the grey bulk of Mull. But Inspector Blue’s office was not on the fourth floor, nor was it even at the front of the building. It was on the ground floor and at the back, and the view was of the kitchens of the Scotia Hotel.

Even so, there was sometimes, perhaps even often, something of interest to see from his window. He had recently witnessed the preparation of a boiled cod’s head to a traditional recipe. The head had seemed very large, so that he could not imagine how big the whole fish must be. Davie the cook seemed to be removing the brain with a spoon, mixing it in a bowl with something dark and slimy, sprinkling in what could be salt, pepper, spices, herbs, maybe breadcrumbs too. The head had stared at the inspector balefully, before disappearing under the pan lid. Davie said to him later, in the bar, You’ve to be careful wi cod. Bottom feeders. There’s aye worms in them. Especially in the liver. For the Biled Cod’s Heid you need to mix the brain wi liver, but you’ve to get the worms out the liver first. They spoil the taste. He’d asked if many people ordered it: Aye, quite a few, they’re taken by the novelty o it. But they dinna usually finish it. Plenty left for the Fish Soup next day – we just dinna say what’s in it. Blue’s stomach had churned as he remembered the tasty fish soup he’d often had in the bar of a lunch time.

His phone rang.

Inspector Blue. How may I help? There were strict instructions on how to answer the phone. No hellos, or other signs of familiarity. To the point, but with courtesy. Identify yourself clearly. Police Scotland are always ready to help.

Excellent response, Blue, ten out of ten. Superintendent Campbell, Head of CID.

Thank you sir, did you want something?

The Super’s office. The fourth floor, at the front. Divisional commander must have the penthouse. Of course, normally the view over Oban Bay was spectacular. But today heavy cloud hung over everything. A big ferry loomed out of the mist.

The boss as usual sat behind his wide polished wood desk. Files and papers at either side; in the space in the middle, one slim file. Angus, come in, sit down. How are you doing?

Fine, thanks, chief. Campbell frowned, but who doesn’t like to be called ‘chief’? Informal but respectful, acknowledging the leader who can make contact with his troops. Hope all’s well up here?

Need you ask? Never is! Coffee? The Super had a commensurately superior coffee machine with an Italian name. The coffee was good, made the trip upstairs worthwhile. Almost.

Yes, please. What’s going on now?

Rumours of an announcement on Britishness. Doesn’t sound good. The government in London had recently announced that a ‘Reclaiming Britishness’ project would soon be launched. This programme of as-yet-unspecified measures would enable citizens of a ‘newly-self-confident Britain’ to rediscover the essence of their national identity, ‘buried too long beneath continental bureaucracy and alien cultures.’

Hmm. Blue waited, but nothing more was forthcoming. He sipped his coffee. Strong and deep. I guess there’s something you’d like me to do, sir?

Yes, yes, of course. Campbell moved the slim file an inch to the right. Islay. Unexplained death. Maybe more than one.

Bloodbath?

Probably a perfectly natural explanation. CID need to have a look. Just in case.

Blue could not think of a natural explanation for several dead bodies. Why wasn’t everyone they had being rushed over there?

Accident of some sort? A bus packed with screaming tourists rushing down the hairpins at Port Askaig and plunging into the Sound of Islay. Maybe an epidemic? A recent visitor from a distant land coughing a terrible virus onto the streets of Bowmore.

No, no, Angus, they’ve just been revealed. Uncovered.

Uncovered?

From the peat. Some peat-cutters found them. Early this morning.

So they’re not recent?

When did I say they were?

Er, you didn’t.

Exactly. Campbell glanced at the file, slid it one inch to the left.

So how old are they? asked Blue.

We don’t know. As yet. Could be very old, who knows, Middle Ages, Dark Ages, earlier. Like those bodies they found in…where was it?

Denmark. Bog bodies. Dyed brown by the peat.

Sacrifices?

Maybe. Or executions. Maybe even a serial killer.

Ours could be more recent. Can you get over there, check it out?

OK, chief. What about the shoplifting gang at the Co-op?

The Romanians?

Two of them. The rest are from Manchester.

Where are we on that?

We’re ready to round them up. Tomorrow afternoon. Sixteen-thirty.

Don’t give me jargon, Angus.

Sorry, sir. Half past four.

Good. Well, you may be back by then, otherwise Sergeant Bruce can handle it.

When am I off then?

Campbell looked at his watch. Get home, grab a bag. There’s a scheduled flight at twelve. Otherwise you’d have to get the bus to Kennacraig for the ferry.

SOCOs? asked Blue.

Inspector Lennox is on it; they’ll be over sometime this afternoon.

Blue got up and put his cup on the plastic tray on the window ledge. He knew the routine. Just one thing, sir, any info on the subject?

Info? You’re sailing close to the line, Blue.

You’re right, chief. Sorry. In order to encourage ‘intercommunicability’ throughout its empire, Police Scotland had issued a list of words to be used in reports and other ‘intra-force transactions’. This document was regarded with contempt by most police officers.

Quite so. Here’s what was emailed this morning. Read it on the plane. He gazed at the file for a moment, then pushed it across the desk with a fingertip. Maybe just one sheet inside. And on the front was typed: ‘Glenegedale Moss deceased’.

Let me know what’s happening, Angus.

Yes, chief, ASAP. That wasn’t on the list either.

***

2

The yellow Twin Islander 9-seater took Inspector Blue from Oban’s modest airport to Islay in thirty minutes. There were only five passengers, so the pilot had to seat them to balance the plane. Blue observed them. An old man who fell asleep as soon as he boarded; a girl of anything between thirteen and nineteen; and two men who talked loudly in German – whisky tourists, mispronounced distillery names peppering their conversation. The plane flew low, and on a good day the views would have been fantastic. But this wasn’t a good day. The sea was grey. The sky was grey. The distant land was grey. As if normality were on holiday, the tiny plane, wobbling on its axis, flew through nothingness and came out into another country. Mountains, bare and ancient, then flat lands of faded yellow-brown, and then asphalt of a runway that seemed too long for itself, and ended in the sea.

Climbing down from the plane, the flatness confirmed itself. A road ran past, perfectly straight, disappearing into gathering mist. Beyond, an imposing Victorian villa. Nothing else.

The terminal building was just one room, but offered everything. Except duty free. Though there was plenty of evidence of whisky about: bottles in tall glass display cases, framed posters on the walls. One caught his eye. Kilbrocheann. A squat dark bottle resting on a stack of peats, against a fiery red sunset.

He thought someone might have been sent to meet him; maybe on the islands things moved more slowly. In two minutes the only other person still there was the old man, who had lowered himself into one of the comfy seats and fallen asleep again. Blue took the five-second walk to the café end of the terminal and ordered coffee from the smiling ladies at the counter.

Hello, would you be coming for a holiday here? I see you’re ready for the walking. It was true, he was wearing walking shoes, trekking pants, fleece and waterproof jacket. That was one of the benefits of plain clothes; you could dress for the weather and the terrain. Not that he wore anything different in Oban. The chief had long since given up trying to persuade him to wear a cheap suit.

Not as such.

It must be the sales, then!

Do I look like a shopper? thought Blue. Sorry, I wasn’t thinking of looking at the shops.

Och, no, not the shops. We’ve precious few of them here. The sheep sales!

Ah, no, sorry.

Then it must be the whisky!

Well, I am interested in the whisky, I must admit. Be a discreet businessman, probably in the spirits industry. Change the subject. Is that a carrot cake? Looks good. Can I have a piece?

Jessie made it just yesterday. You’ll be wanting cream with it.

By the counter was a shallow basket containing DVDs, home-made by the look of them: Flying-boats over Islay. Sixty minutes of planes flying over Islay, from the Second World War to the present day. He bought one of them too, along with a copy of The Ileach, Islay’s fortnightly newspaper, and took a seat. The old man snored loudly and woke himself up, gazed at Blue and nodded vaguely, then sank into sleep again.

His thoughts drifted onto the bodies in the bog. He’d read the file before he even got on the flight; there was only one page, nothing more than a paragraph indicating that two men, Thomas and Robert McRae – were they brothers? – had been cutting peats, and came across the bodies. The site had been secured, and HQ at Oban were requested to send a scene-of-crime team, and a CID officer. It was signed by an Inspector Nicolson. The name meant nothing to him.

He remembered the bodies in the museum in Copenhagen. A man’s head in a glass case. Just the head. Brown and leathery, a weather-beaten farmer. Strangled by persons unknown, the cord still round his neck. Sacrifice? Execution? Or just murder? What counted as crime back then? How many more were still down there, waiting to be wakened by the peat-cutters.

There were now a few more people hanging around: a middle-aged man in a fleece, a well-dressed woman, a young man in a denim jacket. Minutes later, when the plane from Glasgow arrived, Blue watched the passengers coming through. The man in the fleece held up a card with a large oriental character on it. A small group of young women came through talking excitedly; they spotted the sign and, giggling, headed for the man. One of them took the card and turned it the other way up – then they followed him out. The young man greeted his girl-friend with a lengthy hug, whilst the woman waved to an elderly lady, and led her towards the exit. A couple of young men in suits, a bald fleshy man with round glasses who would be a bank manager, if such things still existed, a big man with a heavy moustache and a limp, and a young couple, maybe from southern Europe, with rucksacks and binoculars. Soon they were all gone, leaving Blue and the old man, still sleeping.

He’d forgotten about the carrot cake. As he leaned over it, wondering how to eat with the plastic fork without getting cake all over himself, he sensed someone close by.

Inspector Blue? The accent was educated Glasgow. Maybe south side. Intelligent. Polite. He looked up. A young uniformed PC was stooping over him.

Yes?

PC Bhardwaj, sir. Sorry I’m late. We thought you’d be on the ferry, so I was waiting at Port Askaig. I got over as soon as I heard.

How did you know I was here?

Annie at the cafe phoned Bowmore, said they had someone who looked like a policeman. So much for the discreet businessman impersonation.

He hadn’t made much impact on his carrot cake, so Annie insisted on putting it in a box, with an extra dollop of cream and another plastic fork. You’ll be wanting it for your dinner.

***

3

The police car was a small one, maybe a Clio, with four doors. The police transfers on the bodywork had either been stuck on carelessly, or someone had tried to rearrange them afterwards. The patrol car broke down last week, explained Bhardwaj, the garage lent us this one. We’ll go up to the crime site right away, sir, if that’s alright. The boss is waiting there.

They got into the car, and drove the twenty yards to the airport entrance gates. Looking left then right, Blue could see a dead straight road, disappearing into the mist in both directions. A white van with a cylindrical tube on top passed them at a leisurely pace from left to right.

That’ll be George Kelly, said Bhardwaj, Plumber from Bowmore. Never drives over thirty mph.

He revved up the car and screeched onto the road, turning right, then after a few yards swinging left onto a minor road heading gradually up into the mist. To his left a large Victorian villa, maybe a hotel now, on the right a garage with rows of cars for sale outside. ‘McCall’s Motors’ said the sign in big yellow letters.

A minute later he was thrown to the right as Bhardwaj took a 90-degree left onto a track that seemed to climb straight onto the moor. Soon they left the last swathes of mist behind, and came up to a temporary Police – No Access sign. Beyond it another police Clio sat by the track.

As they drew to a halt a uniformed female officer got out of the other car. She waited for them to exit their vehicle, then approached Blue. Hi. Inspector Moira Nicolson. Tall, slim, short dark hair, hazel eyes, penetrating gaze. Fortyish, but he wasn’t any good at guessing ages. Uniform clean and pressed. Green wellies. A look of efficiency. Something twitched at the back of his brain. The name was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Was there a Moira Nicolson in his class at primary school?

Angus Blue. They shook hands.

Good to meet you, Angus. I’ll show you the scene. The ground’s not too wet at the moment, but there’s spare wellies in the car if you need them.

I’m OK. Waterproof shoes. Thanks.

This way then. Across the ditch. Watch in case it’s a bit slippy.

Blue followed Nicolson across an old pallet bridging a drainage ditch at the side of the track. In a couple of minutes they were at the site. Along an edge about thirty yards long the peat had been cut in foot-long wet slabs, each turned over and laid partly onto the previous one to dry out in the wind. At the end of the cut there was a circle of police tape on posts, and within that things looked a bit more untidy. Part of the edge of the cut had crumbled away beneath the mat of heather and coarse grasses at the surface.

This is Glenegedale Moss. You’ll have passed over it as you came in on the plane. You’ve read my initial report? When Blue nodded, she continued. The McRae brothers, Rab and Tam, cutting peats here early this morning. Tam – that’s Thomas – notices the peat’s a bit disturbed. He goes for it anyway, and next thing is, he’s hit something with the spade. Finds he’s chopped off a hand.

That would be quite a surprise.

Yes, they called us right away. We secured the area and alerted Oban. You’re first, SOCOs are on the way. I guess they’ll be taking the ferry. Here we are, take a look. Down at the bottom there.

I’m not seeing anything. Am I looking at the right spot?

Nicolson fished in her top pocket and pulled out a slim cylinder. She pointed it at the peat bank, and a bright red spot appeared on the ground. Laser pointer, she said, Very useful. Look. There’s the wrist where the hand came off. It was brown, the same colour as everything else, but once the red spot had hovered on it, Blue could see it just sticking out of the peat. An off-white hint of bone in the centre. And there’s a toe over there. It might be a second body.

He found it harder to see it despite the red spot. It might have been a stone at first glance. But when he looked closer, he could see the nail. Yes, maybe too far away to be part of the same body, he said, Unless it was chopped up.

He stepped back and looked at the peat face. He could see that above the arm and toe the texture of the peat was slightly different from the rest of the face. Not so smooth. And maybe it was even a little bit darker. Material disturbed when the grave was dug for the body. Or bodies. Yes, I can see the disturbance, he said. Maybe ten feet across. Big hole for one body. I suspect you’re right about more than one. We’ll have to wait for the SOCOs to dig it out, and see. They won’t welcome all that exercise. By the way, do you know when they’ll be here?

If they got the two o’clock boat they could be here not long after four. If they missed it, then they won’t be here before it gets dark.

Blue was still studying the peat face. Moira, can I suggest something?

Fire away.

From what I’ve seen so far, I think it’s worth calling in the forensic archaeologist. The SOCOs will all have done the archaeological training course, but there aren’t many opportunities to use the skills. I’d suggest that we need an expert here. Her name’s Alison Hendrickx, Dr Hendrickx, that is. With an X at the end. Her grandfather was Belgian.

You know Dr Hendrickx then?

I’ve worked with her a few times. She knows her stuff.

Prior to unification, Scottish police forces had to borrow archaeologists from local universities. However, since then they had their own, Dr. Alison Hendrickx. Having specialised in the archaeology of crime scenes, she was now widely recognised for her expertise, and Police Scotland made a tidy income hiring her out, mainly to forces elsewhere in Europe. Her training work and lectures at the police college also brought in international business. But her first priority, which validated all the rest, was getting into the trenches, so to speak, in Scotland.

Yes, I can see what you’re getting at. I’ll give Oban a ring, see if we can get her in. She took out a mobile and moved a few yards away to make the call.

Blue took the opportunity to look around. The mist was drifting away now, as if slithering back to some hidden lair, and the landscape slowly unveiled itself. He could see the airport, beyond it the sea. To the right the road, stretching off towards Bowmore, and above it the pale brown of the moor, with the black strips of the peat diggings standing out like scars.

The sun was out now, and as he let his gaze drift across the moor he caught a glimpse of reflected light. Light off glass. He saw a couple of figures out there, a long way off, too far to recognise. Were they watching?

He walked back to the car, where PC Bhardwaj was now sitting on a folding chair, a pair of powerful binoculars on his knee. He jumped up. Yes, sir?

Constable…

Please, chief, call me Arvind.

OK, Arvind, can I borrow your binoculars?

No problem, chief. He handed them over. I keep a look out for birds. There are eagles here.

Blue pointed the binoculars and focused them, panned across the land where he’d seen the figures. But now there was nothing to be seen. Ramblers, birdwatchers, crime site ghouls? Did people already know there was a crime scene here?

Nicolson joined him again. I’ve put in the request. They’ll get her to call me back.

Good. So what else is happening?

I thought we should see whether this is linked to any historic events, you know, old murders or disappearances. So I arranged a meeting with some folk from the Historical Society. I’m meeting them at the museum, over at Port Charlotte, at two-thirty. Do you want to come along?

Yes, that sounds useful.

In that case I suggest we go straight over now. She glanced at her watch. It’s twenty past one now, so we can get a coffee there, and talk a bit more. Arvind will keep an eye on the site here.

They drove back down the track towards the road. Ahead of them, beyond the road, Blue could see waste ground with curious flat expanses of what looked like concrete, set here and there, like worn-out playing cards flicked onto the earth at random by some irritated giant.

What are these things? Look like concrete floors, he asked.

That’s where the old air base was, said Nicolson, Most of the buildings were knocked down after the war. All that’s left are these floors in the middle of nowhere. And the airport.

They reached the road, and turned right, passing McCall’s garage to turn right onto the main road.

The airport?

There was a little airfield here in the 1930s. During the war it was converted into an air base and considerably extended. All sorts of stuff going on. That’s why the runway at the airport’s so long. They had big planes coming in. Even from America. So after the war that part of the base became the airport. They built this road too. Before that all the roads on the island were single-track.

A car passed them in the other direction. The driver, a middle-aged woman, raised a finger from the steering wheel, a hint of a wave, and Nicholson responded similarly.

I suppose everybody knows everybody here, said Blue.

Not necessarily. That’s the Islay wave, most of the residents will do it, and the regular visitors. Dates from the time there weren’t so many cars about, I guess.

They passed through Bowmore, the island’s capital, with its round church, harbour and shops, and beyond the town found the shore of Loch Indaal, around which Islay curls like a sleeping giant. At Bridgend they turned left to follow the lochside towards Port Charlotte. Before reaching the museum they passed Bruaichladdich distillery, the first of Islay’s distilleries Blue had spotted.

***

4

When he came to, the first thing he noticed was the floor beneath him. It was beneath most of him, as he was lying on it. It was cold and wet and hard. He touched it with his hand. It felt like concrete, coarse-grained with tiny ridges. His feet were bare and felt the cold floor too. At least he still had his shirt and trousers. He opened his eyes, and blinked. The darkness was total. It surrounded him like a living presence, a thick and hostile fog, soaking into his clothes, condensing onto his feet and hands, caressing his face, invading his nose and mouth like suffocating tentacles. He shivered, and tried to get up. Then he noticed the pain. First the stabbing from his left knee as he tried to raise himself, then the dull ache in his chest every time he breathed in, and finally, and worst of all, the waves of fire in his mouth, pulsating through his head. He put a hand to his cheek and gasped. The side of his face was swollen, his tongue felt a gap and a broken tooth, and the pain leapt out from it at him, seized his face, writhed with it. He groaned and forced his jaws together.

Now he remembered the two men. One had used a weapon, a cricket bat, sawn-off less than a foot below the handle. Used with the flat or edge, depending on what kind of damage he wanted to inflict. The other man just used his fists, and his boot. The rules of cricket didn’t apply here.

He needed to get up, fought the pain to push himself onto his knees and then to stand. The darkness followed him, clinging to his arms and legs, draping itself over him. He raised an arm above him, and felt the ceiling, cold damp concrete too. Then he stretched out his arms into the blackness to find a wall. It was right next to him, he must have been lying against it. He felt cold brick and damp mortar. Now he groped his way around the edge of the room, to gauge its size. About six feet square he reckoned. In the first corner he came to he hit something metallic with his foot, heard a sloshing. Groping down, he realised it was a bucket. Had he used it earlier, or did they just not empty it very often? He couldn’t remember. He found the door, solid steel by the feel, no hatch and no keyhole. And it didn’t budge when he tried to push it. A cell, a dungeon, an oubliette. A tiny room with no light and no furniture. It smelt heavily of disinfectant, and behind that, the foul odour of urine, faeces and blood. He stopped moving and listened. Yes. The sound of the sea, of the waves swishing onto the beach. So, he was still here, still on Islay. And if he could hear the ocean, there must be a window, near the ceiling perhaps, or at the least a ventilation brick. So it must be night too, or he’d see what little light trickled into the cell along with the whisper of the sea.

He shouted, paused and listened. There was no response, not even an echo, as if the darkness had eaten up the words as they came out of his mouth. He shivered again, sat down with his back against the