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Back Time for the Dead Save as PDF
Chapters (94)
  1. Cover
  2. Time for the Dead
  3. Dedication page
  4. Map
  5. Epigraph page
  6. Prologue
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. 63
  70. 64
  71. 65
  72. 66
  73. 67
  74. 68
  75. 69
  76. 70
  77. 71
  78. 72
  79. 73
  80. 74
  81. 75
  82. 76
  83. 77
  84. 78
  85. 79
  86. 80
  87. 81
  88. 82
  89. 83
  90. 84
  91. Epilogue
  92. Acknowledgements
  93. About the Author
  94. By Lin Anderson

The net encased him but it didn’t shut out his voice, and that’s what she wanted to do now, more than anything.

She snatched at the canvas bag she’d brought with her and, creeping towards him, dropped it over his head.

‘What the fuck, Seven!’

He was writhing madly now like a spider caught in a giant web and she knew that he hadn’t freed his hands, hadn’t reached his knife, wherever it was.

‘Time to shut up, Jack.’

She’d diverted her water source, giving it another escape route. Now she released it, hearing it return to its preferred path. To encourage what was about to happen, she upended the plastic container she’d already filled, over his hood. He must have anticipated what was about to come, because it took a few moments before he was forced to open his mouth and the coughing and choking began.

Seven poured some more and felt a rush of pleasure at his increasingly frantic attempts at breathing in with his waterlogged lungs.

The incoming tide had found the hole now and was rushing in to meet the running stream.

She thought she heard a ‘Please, Seven’ among the ever-more strangled coughs.

‘My name isn’t Seven,’ she said quietly.

75

The conference room, she knew, was still heaving with people. Chrissy was beginning to wonder if the entire population of Portree was either in the police station or outside in the square.

The weather had cleared but there had been no change on the plans to use the chopper. Looking for personnel, even if they were showing a light, was an almost impossible task. Better to wait for daylight, especially searching such a wild coastline.

Chrissy knew all the sane and sensible reasons why Search and Rescue didn’t normally go out in the dark, but it didn’t make any difference. Their absence just felt like a failure.

But Donald’s out there looking with Jamie, and they have radios. They’ll tell us as soon as they locate Rhona, she reminded herself.

And what of Blaze?

Donald would be worried sick. She knew that. He had been more than kind about loaning the services of his dog, but maybe, just maybe, Rhona had gone too far this time? The split loyalty of such a thought only served to increase Chrissy’s fears for both Rhona and the dog, forcing her to concentrate on what she could affect.

Her samples from the burnt-out vehicle and her report and photographs were no doubt already being discussed in Glasgow. McNab would have seen to that. There was also, according to McNab, the likelihood that the body in the stolen jeep had been Malcolm Stevenson. The ring that might identify him was sitting before her in an evidence bag, ready to be sent in the morning.

As if on cue, her mobile drilled, McNab’s name on the screen.