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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

That’s all the dying soldier cared about. With his last words he begged us to save his fucking dog and Sugarboy took his remaining hand and promised him that we would.

I’d wiped the boy clean by then, finding only superficial wounds, cuts from stones, not shrapnel. I should have searched him, checked he’d come in via the chopper, but he was just a wide-eyed kid. Wasn’t he?

When you think of it that way, he was right and it was all my fault it happened.

But back to the dog . . . right front leg looked a goner, but Sugarboy wouldn’t hear of taking it off. We set to work, and during that time the boy did what he was there to do.

The chopper never took off again, blown to bits when the boy threw a grenade.

Just far enough away from the blast, Sugarboy, myself, Ben, Charlie . . . and the fat-tailed scorpion survived. Gordo and Mitch weren’t so lucky.

Or maybe they were the fortunate ones.

The deafening blast hit the tent like a whirlwind. After that, the first thing I remember when I forced my grit-filled eyes open was the boy pointing down at me, a triumphant smile on his face.

Seems I scored a 7 with the enemy too.

‘You didn’t rape me,’ I say as the sandstorm ends and everything becomes quiet again. ‘Not even when they threatened to cut off your balls.’

He reaches up and touches my face. I can smell blood on his fingers.

‘And I’ll kill any bastard who does.’

I know he means it.

26

‘What is that?’ Chrissy said.

Rhona placed the oval gemstone in the palm of her hand so that they might both take a proper look. Set in an intricately worked metal tin casing, the jewel was a clouded dark blue-green. On one side it was linked to a similarly fashioned but smaller triangular metal piece, without a stone.

‘It looks Arabic, like part of a necklace,’ Chrissy said.

When Rhona held it up by the short chain, the parts jangled together.

‘Not the victim’s then?’

It seemed unlikely, but it had been dropped here on the churned-up ground that the dog had led them to. Rhona took a picture of it then dropped it into an evidence bag.

‘We’re out of time to do this properly,’ Chrissy said, glancing at the swiftly darkening sky.

They’d photographed the ground and the footsteps found there. Rhona had counted maybe four sets of boots, of individual sole patterns and sizes, which had imprinted deeply on the moistened ground. None matched the soles of the victim’s boots.

She’d also taken soil samples, noting the presence of Sitka spruce needles, some of which she’d also found on the victim’s clothing. Picea sitchensis wasn’t a native conifer. Introduced to Britain from North America, it was grown in commercial plantations all over the Highlands and, it seemed, also on Skye.