Time for the Dead

1

Run. Breathe.

She could smell her own sweat, feel it trickle inside her gear, despite her breath condensing in the freezing air.

She paused to catch her breath and check the thump of her heart. Sniffing the air like a dog, she sought a scent of the others.

People thought that all perspiration had the same smell. It didn’t. She knew what each member of the group smelt like. In the midnight darkness of a desert hideout, she was able to distinguish each one of them by their footfall, by their breathing pattern as they slept and by the scent of their bodies.

She knew when they were at peace. When they were afraid, which was most of the time, and when they were aroused.

Like now.

Her ears attuned, she instinctively knew where the others were with respect to her own location. She knew exactly where he was. And that was close behind her.

Very close.

She could hear the faint rumble of the burn, swollen with melting snow, but not yet see it. In Afghanistan they’d had their night-vision goggles. Not here. Here they had to rely on their own eyes and their instincts.

She would stop, she decided. She would wait for him to come to her, as she knew he would. Her heart beat like a marching band and her sweat mingled with the tang of wet birch as she awaited his arrival.

As it was, she caught the stink of his body before she saw him.

Then a shaft of moonlight escaped from behind the sleet-laden clouds, to find his outline. Tall, broad, his body dense and tense. She knew what he would do when he reached her. Crow his success. Look for his reward. Take it.

She knew real fear then and longed to turn and run.

Spinning suddenly, she took off again, denying him his prize. He gave a shout of anger. Despite her quick getaway, he would be on her soon. Now she could smell what he wanted. Something she was unwilling to give.

2

The temperature had dropped again overnight. Rhona watched as her breath condensed above her, then pulling the cover over her head once more, rejoiced in the warmth below the duvet.

It was, she decided, the coldest winter she’d ever experienced on Skye.

Not that she had spent many winters here to judge.

Summer had been her time for visiting as a teenager, apart from a week last November just before the case that had called her to Sanday, one of Orkney’s most northerly islands.

Thinking about work stirred her properly awake. She had spent the time since the sin-eater case blanking her mind of all things related to that subject. And since work normally consumed her for most hours of the day, that had been a difficult thing to achieve.

An impossible thing to achieve.

So, she had compensated by studying past unsolved cases she hadn’t been involved in, together with new developments in the field of forensics. And she had spent time reading, working her way through every book she’d found in the cottage, before joining the travelling library and requesting more.

She’d taken a daily swim until the weather had got too cold even for her wetsuit. She’d climbed and walked, and walked and climbed, since Skye was a perfect place to do both.

In all this endeavour to forget, she’d enlisted the help of Jamie McColl, who had shared her teenage summers on the island. Jamie had stayed behind to run the family undertaker’s, while Rhona had gone to Glasgow University initially to study medicine, then switching to forensic science. A member of the local Mountain Rescue Team, Jamie also knew the hills better than anyone, so was the perfect guide when she required one.

He was also easy company and they never discussed his work or hers, or even why she’d forsaken it.

Throwing back the duvet, Rhona rose and, grabbing a jumper, went to check on the stove. Entering the sitting room, she found it still warm from the dying embers of the fire. Had she remembered to build it up with peat before falling into bed, the rest of the cottage would have been equally warm.

Used to gas central heating in her Glasgow flat, and the instantly available fire in the sitting room, her biggest adjustment in coming here had been how to stay continuously warm. Only now did she fully appreciate the work involved in doing that.

Rhona opened the stove and threw in some more wood, after which she headed for the kitchen. Filling the coffee machine, she then grabbed her coat, pulled on her boots, opened the back door and stepped outside. Despite having done this every morning since her arrival, the sight that met her never failed to fill her with wonder.

This was why she’d come here and this was what might save her.

In the darkness of despair, in the blackness of her incarceration, this was the image she’d tried to remember when she closed her eyes.

The tide was out, leaving glistening pools among the grey rocks. The Sound of Sleat was as calm as the sky above it. Something that didn’t happen very often. A blue sky belied the cold that sent a shiver through her body, although the distant peaks of the mainland told the truth, coated as they were in a white mantle.

Bathed by the warmth of the Gulf Stream, the west coast of Scotland experienced plenty of rain, but wasn’t renowned for snow cover. Winter climbers rarely visited Skye and the Cuillin to challenge themselves on snow or ice, but this winter had been different.

This winter had brought more snow and lower temperatures than usual, and, Rhona thought, made this part of Scotland even more beautiful for its presence. She stood breathing in both the scene and the sharp air, before the scent of the freshly brewed coffee beckoned.

Heading inside, she found the fire ablaze and the chill in the remainder of the cottage definitely diminished. She opened the stove and, laying on some peat blocks, turned the damper down, as she should have done overnight.

Pouring a cup of strong coffee brought a fleeting image of DS Michael McNab, her colleague, friend and, briefly, former lover. With that came the memory of the moment McNab had turned his Harley-Davidson Street Glide into the rough track that led to the cottage, with her riding pillion.

The trip itself by motorbike had been an eye-opener for Rhona. She’d travelled the same route before, many times, by car. On a bike it had been totally different. Surprisingly so. Still traumatized by her recent experience, she’d found herself able to smile again as she observed the Highlands with new eyes.

McNab had been quick to note the change, and had suggested she might like to embrace freedom and buy a bike of her own.

By the time they’d reached Skye, Rhona was beginning to consider doing just that.

McNab might have opened her eyes to a new way of travelling through the Highlands. Rhona, on the other hand, hadn’t succeeded in opening McNab’s eyes to the pleasures of living there. His first words as he’d approached the cottage had in fact been, ‘You’re planning to stay . . . here?’

He’d tried, she remembered, not to sound too horrified at the thought.

McNab, as an urban warrior, had no desire to be anywhere other than his beloved Glasgow and its ‘mean streets’, the countryside being anathema to him.

Yet he agreed to bring me here despite his misgivings.

‘You’ll lose the plot,’ he offered as he drew up outside. ‘No Chrissy, no Sean. No shops. No pubs.’

Rhona, choosing to ignore any reference to her mental state, however throwaway, said instead, ‘There’s a very nice pub not far from here. And I can have my food delivered just like in Glasgow.’

McNab hadn’t looked convinced by that.

‘Internet?’ he’d countered as she’d unlocked the blue, salt-streaked front door.

Rhona couldn’t lie. ‘I hear it’s better than it was.’

‘Better than on Sanday, I hope?’ He’d shaken his head, as though even the memory of their incarceration on that particular remote island still caused him pain.

‘I’ll adjust,’ Rhona had assured him, wondering if she would, or even could.

Still, anything was better than being in the Glasgow flat at the moment. Or maybe ever again.

McNab had checked out the tiny cottage as though it were a crime scene, before unlocking the back door and stepping outside.

‘Jeez,’ he’d said, noting how close they were to the water. ‘You’re nearly in the fucking sea.’

‘The tide doesn’t come past those rocks,’ Rhona had assured him. ‘Even when it’s stormy.’

She’d watched as McNab cut off whatever he’d been about to say in response, although Rhona had been able to read every line on his face. He was worried about her, although trying desperately not to say it out loud. Something that wasn’t easy for him.

The journey west had gone well, mainly because he’d loved riding his motorbike on such open roads. Now they were actually here, he’d had to face up to the fact that he felt like he was abandoning her ‘in a foreign land’.

‘It’s not foreign,’ Rhona had laughed at that. ‘This is where my adopted parents came from. This is where I spent a large chunk of my childhood,’ she’d reminded him.

The box of groceries she’d pre-ordered had been left in the back shed as she’d requested. ‘See,’ Rhona had said as she’d lifted it out. ‘Tonight’s tea.’

She’d lit the fire then, while McNab selected something to eat and set about warming it up in the microwave. Fed and weary after the long bike ride, they’d settled companionably in front of the fire, Rhona with a whisky, McNab choosing a beer.

McNab had looked slightly askance when she’d poured herself a malt from the cabinet rather than open the bottle of white wine delivered with the groceries.

‘I’m not ready for white wine . . . yet,’ she’d said, remembering too well its significance.

‘Same for me with whisky.’

Rhona had left McNab in front of the glowing fire nursing his beer and gone to make up the beds. Hers in the double bedroom that had once been her parents’ room and McNab’s in the single room that had once been hers. They’d parted company around ten, but she suspected McNab had got as little sleep as she had.

In truth, Rhona had been glad to see McNab leave the next morning. He was so much a part of what she’d been through that his presence there merely served as a reminder of what she was here to forget.

Nevertheless, she’d surprised both McNab and herself by giving him a hug goodbye, recalling the scent of his skin and the feel of his bristled cheek against her own.

‘Give Ellie my love,’ she’d told him as he’d hugged her back.

‘I will,’ he’d said, his look of affection bringing a swell of emotion Rhona could hardly contain.

As the motorbike reached the main road, he’d turned and waved his last goodbye, and at his departure, Rhona had felt so lost and alone that she’d gone quickly inside and locked the door.

3

Rhona stared at the front door, key in hand.

If, or when, she felt able to leave the door unlocked, she would, she realized, have reached a definite signpost on her road to recovery.

This isn’t Glasgow, she reminded herself. This is Skye, where everyone knows your business and your whereabouts.

Her parents had never locked their door when going out and neither had she in past times. No one around here had locked their doors. What if a visitor arrived, cold, wet or hungry, and couldn’t get inside?

Perish the thought.

Perhaps, though, things had changed. There were more strangers about. The local population of 10,000 was now dwarfed annually by over half a million tourists. And Skye wasn’t an island any more. It had a bridge to the mainland. Plus, there was crime, although rarely major. And, unlike on Sanday, there was a police station.

All these excuses for her urban-style behaviour caused Rhona’s hand to hover two inches from the keyhole.

McNab would blow a fuse if he knew she was even contemplating leaving the door unlocked. As would Sean.

Conscience assuaged, Rhona slid in the key and turned it. Then, as recompense for her lack of faith in the people of Skye, she put the key under a nearby stone.

Jamie’s borrowed jeep was coated in a spidery film of snow, although last night’s light fall had already melted into the muddy car track.

Rhona checked her watch as she joined the main road. She had agreed to meet up with Jamie in Portree, but before that she had to face her appointment with the trauma counsellor. Despite her protestations that she had no need of such support, DI Wilson had continued to insist. ‘If you’d agreed to go to Castlebrae, this wouldn’t be necessary,’ had been Bill’s exact words.

Castlebrae was a treatment centre for police officers, injured physically or psychologically in the line of duty.

‘I’m not a police officer,’ Rhona had reminded him. ‘But I am due some time off. And I plan to spend it on Skye.’

Bill had backed off then, but Rhona had known he wouldn’t give up. And he hadn’t. She had finally agreed to a meeting with a psychiatrist, more because of Chrissy’s constant urging.

‘What harm can it do?’ her friend and forensic assistant had told her. ‘And it’ll get Bill off your back, and mine.’

So for Chrissy’s sake at least, Rhona had eventually agreed to today’s meeting.

Besides, she liked the hour-long run from Armadale to Portree, which lay roughly halfway up the east coast of the island. Most people visiting Skye for the first time had no conception of just how large the island was, and how little of the landmass was accessible by road.

When she’d shown McNab the large framed map on the sitting-room wall of the cottage, he’d been openly surprised, both by its size and the fact that it was covered with Gaelic place names.

In fact it had been that which had prompted his ‘foreign land’ remark.

‘Try looking at any map featuring land north of the central belt,’ she’d told him. ‘It’s all in Gaelic.’

‘It wasn’t on Sanday,’ he’d reminded her.

‘That’s because Orkney and Shetland are Norse. Didn’t they teach you anything about Scotland in school?’

He’d laughed then. ‘I went to a Catholic school, remember? It was all about the conversion of Scotland.’

She was almost at Sconser and the ferry terminal for Raasay. Her favourite view of Raasay was from Portree, but it was here that her most lasting memory of the island began. It had been earlier in her career. Not long after she’d found her son, Liam. Or he had found her.

A fishing boat had netted a severed male foot in Raasay Sound, a month after another fishing boat had gone down in the vicinity. Tempers had been running high among the locals since it hadn’t been the first time a submarine on manoeuvres on the west coast of Scotland had snagged a net and sunk a boat. The forensic trail on that investigation had led Rhona to Raasay via Santa Monica, USA, uncovering a conspiracy that had gone far beyond a clumsy attempt by the Ministry of Defence to shut down the story of the foot.

Today, the ferry was halfway across the Sound, and seeing its steady path to Raasay, Rhona thought she might like to revisit the island sometime during her stay on Skye. Perhaps call in on Mrs McMurdo who’d run the post office back then, and given her a place to stay.

The long length of Loch Sligachan travelled, she now passed the large family-run hotel at its head, then began the steep climb up towards the intermittent plantations that lined the road leading into Portree. The best views on this road were undoubtedly in the opposite direction because of the exciting glimpses of the Cuillin. Something she could enjoy on the way back.

After she got this meeting over with.

Checking her watch, Rhona realized she was going to be late. Something that was entirely down to her reluctance to set out in the first place. As luck would have it, the Dunvegan Road was this side of Portree and she soon spotted the sign for Am Fasgadh. Sweeping into the small car park outside the one-storey building, Rhona swiftly abandoned the jeep and hurried inside.

‘Dr MacLeod?’ a voice called her name on entry.

The man who stood at reception had his hand outstretched, as though certain that she was the person he sought. When Rhona indicated that he was right, he introduced himself.

‘Dr Mike Bailey. I was beginning to think you might have got lost,’ he added with a smile. He waited for a moment, as though expecting an explanation, which Rhona had no desire to give. When this became obvious, he said, ‘If you’d like to follow me through, Dr MacLeod.’

Moments later Rhona found herself in a pleasant room with an equally pleasing view of the surrounding woodland.

‘Welcome to The Shelter,’ he said as he offered her a seat.

‘I know what Am Fasgadh means,’ Rhona heard herself answer testily.

‘Ah.’ Her belligerent tone had seemingly left him unmarked. ‘So you have the Gaelic?’

And that smile again.

‘A smattering,’ Rhona said, as annoyed by her own behaviour as Dr Bailey’s irritatingly kind manner. Gathering herself, she settled back in the chair, at the same time wondering just how much Dr Bailey had been told about her experiences during the sin-eater case. Whatever it was he knew, Rhona had no intention of expanding on it.

She’d turned up here, as requested. No, ordered. That was enough.

Rhona now began her evaluation of Dr Bailey.

He was Irish, by the accent. Probably Dublin, because he sounded a little like Sean, although that was where the likeness ended. No black hair, no blue eyes and probably no saxophone.

‘Where are you from?’ she said, keen to be first in the conversation.

‘Dublin,’ he confirmed.

‘My adopted parents were from Skye, but I’ve spent more time in Glasgow than on the island. Are you based here?’ she asked, before he could get in with a question of his own.

‘Inverness. I do a surgery in Portree once a week.’

‘So you’re kept busy?’

He nodded, beginning to look a little put out by her string of enquiries.

‘So,’ Rhona said, ‘why am I taking up your obviously valuable time?’

‘You tell me,’ he offered.

‘Because I refused to follow procedure and go to Castlebrae. I preferred a holiday here on Skye instead.’

‘So your stay here is a holiday?’

‘Yes,’ Rhona said with certainty.

‘I understood from DI Wilson that you’d recently had a traumatic experience.’

‘I process and analyse violent death for a living, Dr Bailey. Some would say that every day could be considered traumatic.’ She waited, wondering where that remark would take him. Eventually she learned.

‘But you’re not often a victim yourself.’

Rhona took her gaze to the window and thought herself outside again, with the air blowing in her face. With the smell of the sea. With a view of the Cuillin.

‘I am not a victim. A young man and a young woman died on the case I’m assuming you’re referring to. I did not. I’m a survivor and the only reason I’m here now is because I was given no choice.’

‘I see.’

Rhona followed his quick glance at the clock above the door. She suspected he was registering how little had been achieved in the last fifteen minutes.

‘I have to meet someone. So if we’re finished here,’ she said, rising.

Rhona thought by his surprised expression that Dr Bailey might dispute this, but wisely he did not.

‘Same time next week, Dr MacLeod?’ he offered instead.

Rhona gave a brief nod, although she had no intention of ever coming back. To her mind, she had done what was required of her.

They shook hands again. His was warm and dry. Her own, she noticed, was cold and damp.

Registering the increased beat of her heart and her trembling hand as she unlocked the jeep, Rhona took a deep breath and fastened her gaze on the mountains to remind herself that she hadn’t been buried alive again in Dr Bailey’s questioning eyes.

Now outside the funeral director’s, which was minutes away from Am Fasgadh, Rhona was counselling herself against going inside, the meeting with Dr Bailey having stirred up memories of a certain Glasgow undertaker’s and what had happened there.

Which was why dwelling on the past was not a good thing.

When Rhona rang Jamie’s number, he answered immediately.

‘Are you on your way?’

‘I’m here already.’

‘Great. I’ll be right out.’

He was as good as his word. Rhona watched as his tall figure emerged and felt her heart lift at the sight of him. With Jamie she could relax because he wouldn’t ask her how she felt and why she was here.

Rhona climbed out of the driver’s seat. ‘I think you should drive. It’s your jeep after all.’

Jamie took her place behind the wheel, while she buckled herself into the passenger seat.

‘She’s running smoothly for you?’

‘I really like her,’ Rhona assured him.

‘I didn’t want to use one of the funeral cars, not where we’re going.’

‘And where is that exactly?’ Rhona said as they set off.

‘A.C.E Target Sports to book a stag do for my mate. I’m the best man so it’s my job to organize it all.’

‘Okay . . .’ Rhona said. ‘But you don’t need me to tag along. I can walk into Portree. Have a coffee.’

‘I want you to try out some of the weapons.’

‘Weapons?’

‘Axes, knives. That sort of thing.’

‘You are joking?’

‘Nope.’ Jamie grinned. ‘It’s just up the road a bit. In this weather it’ll be muddy. How’s your footwear?’

‘Sturdy.’

‘Good.’

He headed towards Portree before turning right into the Struan Road.

‘And how are you with dogs?’

‘Fine . . .’ Rhona ventured, somewhat puzzled by the question.

‘Then you’ll enjoy meeting Blaze. He basically runs the place.’

4

Stavanger, Norway, the previous day

Inspector Alvis Olsen watched the snow-dusted coast of Scotland approach from his window seat. They said that whatever weather you left behind in Stavanger, you met it again in Aberdeen an hour later.

On this day, the saying was proving to be true. Rising early this morning, he’d found the sky still heavy with snow clouds from an overnight fall, the picturesque wooden buildings of old Stavanger draped in white.

By the time he’d set off for the Commissariat de Polis on Lagårdsveien, the snow underfoot had already turned to slush, though the brightly lit giant winter cruise ship tied up in the harbour still glistened like a frosted, tiered Christmas cake.

His usual route took him from his apartment on Kirkegata through the park at Breiavatnet and along the western flank of its shallow lake, after which the pedestrian walkways gave way to cars as he crossed the road to Lagård Gravlund.

Just as every other day, Alvis entered the graveyard and, turning left, made his way to the quiet rear of the cemetery. Here the usual cypress trees and grey headstones had their own frosting of snow although underfoot the path was clear.

Reaching his wife’s grave, he sat down, ignoring the fact that the bench too had been exposed to the elements. Composing himself for what he wanted to say to Marita, he remained silent for a moment, wondering when or if the urge to speak to his dead wife would ever be satisfied. It was verging on three years now since she’d died in the Cairngorm Mountains of Scotland.

Since that time he’d managed to revisit the place of her death, even made a sort of peace with it. In fact he’d planned to go back there today for a week of winter walking, had it not been for the phone call he’d made yesterday to Scotland.

Calm now, the words ready, Alvis explained why he wouldn’t be going where he had planned, but somewhere else entirely.

‘Remember how much you loved the Isle of Mists, Marita? Although in truth during our short time there we didn’t encounter mist. Rain, yes, and wind. Remember when we walked to the Coral Beach and you could hardly stand up against the wind?’

Alvis laughed, as though he were joining the tinkling laugh he had known so well.

Her silent why drove him on.

‘I called to tell Rhona I was headed back to Scotland and would likely visit Glasgow, but she wasn’t at the lab and apparently hasn’t been since her last case. Chrissy said she’s gone back to Skye.’ He halted, remembering Chrissy’s voice as she’d tried to explain why Rhona wasn’t at work. Why she hadn’t been at work for some time.

‘So I thought, rather than Cairngorm, I might head back to Skye, walk a bit there instead, say hello to the island for you. Check on Dr MacLeod.’

For a long time after Marita’s death on that mountain, he could hear her speaking to him, all the time wondering why no one else could. Now the voice had become internal, almost like a thought, but Alvis still knew what her message was.

He nodded, satisfied with her silent reply. ‘Of course,’ he answered in return. ‘Of course, I will.’

Alvis rose from the seat and, with a swift nod to the neighbouring child’s grave, acknowledged that he hadn’t been able to tell Marita that during the darkness of her incarceration Rhona had suffered a miscarriage, because even now the memory of his wife enduring the same loss was still raw in his mind.

The drive from Aberdeen to Inverness passed uneventfully. The fields were white, but the road a glistening black. He was aware that the majority of the snowfall had visited the west coast of Scotland, something unusual in itself, and that the roads into the west from the capital of the Highlands might not be as clear. And according to the weather report, Skye too had had a heavy fall.

Immediately after he’d ended the conversation with Chrissy, Alvis had set about cancelling his previously booked accommodation in Aviemore and then phoned the hotel he and Marita had stayed at before in Portree, only to discover it was shut for the winter season.

Checking online for an alternative, he suddenly remembered a pub, the Isles, in the main square where he and Marita had spent a great evening, listening to live traditional music. According to the webpage it also had rooms and was open during the winter months.

A quick call there set him up with a place to stay. According to the address Chrissy had given him, it was about an hour away from Rhona’s cottage. He’d already decided to play his visit to the island as though it was nothing to do with Rhona’s situation, something Chrissy had strongly advised.

‘If Rhona gets wind that you’re there because of what’s happened, you’ll be lucky if she even agrees to see you.’

‘That bad?’ he’d queried.

‘That bad,’ Chrissy had said.

Alvis had picked up food in Inverness and, checking the weather and road conditions, headed off by way of the Great Glen. Snow accompanied him en route, but more of a benign presence than a threat, falling softly and intermittently. The great expanse of water that was Loch Ness made him feel at home, although the sides were definitely not fjord-steep.

Passing the Cluanie Dam, he entered the golden pass of Glen Shiel. Alvis had experienced it all before, but his breath still caught in his throat at the sight of the white-topped river, the nearby crags carved during some prehistoric era, and the sadness of the tumbledown ruins of its past inhabitants, in many cases driven from their homes.

As the jagged pinnacles of the Five Sisters of Kintail rose before him in their snow-covered splendour, Alvis decided that one day he would return to climb the classic ridge walk that took in three Munros.

But not this week.

Loch Duich followed as the west coast opened up before him. Looping through the lovely village of Dornie, he spotted the much-photographed Eilean Donan Castle. Arriving where the bridge should be, he found it mysteriously hidden in a thick mist, causing Alvis to mouth his surprise to Marita as he ventured across the hidden arch to re-emerge on dry land again.

The journey had taken just over the statutory three hours from Inverness, and during that time he had thought carefully how he might approach any meeting he would have with Dr MacLeod. They had previously worked well together on the joint investigation between his office and Police Scotland, but that too hadn’t been without trauma.

Alvis flinched at the memories it had left behind, some of whose scars still ran deep in his heart. It had begun with his discovery of the bodies of two small refugee children, frozen in the ice on Norway’s northern border with Russia. Things had only got worse after that and Dr MacLeod had been his mainstay in all of it.

Now it was his turn to be hers.

5

The dog was observing Rhona with large, intelligent eyes. A big black-and-white Border collie, it looked very much the proprietor of the place, just as Jamie had suggested.

‘You must be Blaze?’ Rhona said.

Approaching, the dog sniffed at her proffered hand.

The collie’s deep bark had greeted the jeep’s arrival and had also alerted the human inhabitants of the centre, one of whom now introduced himself as Donald McKay.

Rhona ruffled the collie’s ears. ‘Are you his owner?’

‘I suspect he believes he’s mine,’ Donald said with a bemused grin.

Next up was Matt, who, spotting Jamie, gave a whoop of success. ‘I thought you’d bailed on bringing the stag do here?’

‘No way,’ Jamie said. ‘Although it took a bit of negotiation on my part.’ He rattled off three guys’ names. ‘Who,’ he said, ‘spent a lot of time in the pub last night discussing how exactly they planned to kill one another.’

‘Nothing gets killed here, except the male ego,’ Matt said, smiling at Rhona.

Jamie obligingly introduced her. ‘Rhona is a Skye MacLeod, although currently residing in MacDonald country.’

‘Ah,’ Matt said, with a knowing look. ‘You’re based in Sleat?’

Rhona smiled a yes, knowing full well the turbulent history between the MacDonalds and the MacLeods of Skye. ‘My parents’ cottage is there, where I spent most of my summers. That’s when I got to know Jamie.’

‘I heard our Jamie was a bit of a lad during his teenage years?’ Matt raised a questioning eyebrow.

‘He most definitely was,’ Rhona agreed.

‘With a little help from you, Dr MacLeod,’ Jamie added, before throwing Rhona an apologetic look, realizing he’d let the cat out of the bag.

‘Dr MacLeod,’ Matt said with a look of surprise. ‘So, you’ve moved back home to look after our health?’

‘I’m not that sort of doctor,’ Rhona said. ‘And I’m only here on holiday.’

Matt and Donald exchanged glances which Rhona couldn’t interpret, although she suspected they thought her extended stay might be about Jamie. Something she made no effort to contradict.

Let them think that. It saved her