Chapters (43)
- Pronunciation
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Forty
- Acknowledgments
“Come on, George, what’s going on?” Fin was having trouble complying with Gunn’s request for patience.
Gunn flicked him a glance and seemed oddly embarrassed, running his hand back through the dark hair that formed the widow’s peak on his forehead. He hesitated a moment before reaching a decision. “A few days ago, Mr. Macleod, we recovered a body from the peat bog out at Siader on the west coast. It was the perfectly preserved corpse of a young man in his late teens. He’d died violently.” He paused. “At first it was assumed that the body could be hundreds of years old, perhaps from the time of the Norse occupation. Or even older, as far back as the Stone Age. But an Elvis Presley tattoo on his right forearm kind of blew a hole in that theory.”
Fin nodded. “It would.”
“Well, anyway, sir, the pathologist has established that this young man was probably murdered in the late 1950s. Which means that his killer might just still be alive.”
Marsaili was shaking her head in consternation. “But what’s any of this got to do with my dad?”
Gunn sucked in a long breath through clenched teeth. “Well, the thing is, Miss Macdonald, there was no clothing or anything else that might help us identify the dead man. When we first found the body the police surgeon drew off some fluid and took tissue samples to send for analysis.”
“And they checked the DNA against the database?” Fin said.
Gunn flushed slightly and nodded. “You’ll remember,” he said, “last year, when most of the men in Crobost gave samples to rule them out as suspects in the Angel Macritchie murder . . .”
“Those should have been destroyed by now,” Fin said.
“The donor has to request that, Mr. Macleod. A form signed. It seems Mr. Macdonald didn’t do that. It should have been explained to him, but apparently it wasn’t, or he didn’t understand.” He looked at Marsaili. “Anyway, the database came up with a familial match. Whoever that young man in the bog is, he was related to your father.”
Nine
Nine
The rain is hammering against the window. It’s making some din! When you were out on the moor you never heard it, of course. You heard nothing above the wind. But you felt it all right. Stinging your face when a force ten drove it at you. Horizontal sometimes. I loved that feeling. Out there in the wild, just me and that great big sky, and the rain burning my face.
But they keep me cooped up inside these days. Not to be trusted outdoors, bad Mary says.