Douglas stopped off on his way to pick up a roll of barbed wire that was due in on the morning boat. Simon met him at the gate.
‘How long before local police get here?’
He shrugged. ‘She’s dead so they’ll no be in any hurry. Doctor will be first. He’s only twenty minutes away in his own boat and it’s flat calm. He can get right into the bay. You’d best go over there.’
‘I’m not Police Scotland.’
‘You’re still police, aren’t you? There’d best be someone taking charge till ours get here.’
‘I’ll call them.’
Sam was still asleep when he got through. ‘We use the normal services to get over to Taransay unless it’s a real emergency. Money’s not easy to find for a special chartered boat. Washed-up bodies, no. What exactly are you doing on the island, Chief Superintendent?’
‘Rehab after an operation. I’m fighting fit now and I know Taransay.’
‘Let me ring you back.’
Ten minutes later, he was speaking to his equivalent ranking officer in the Highlands and Islands CID.
‘I’m even more short of folk than usual, there’s been a drug-smuggling op coming into the north and I’ve got no spare pairs of hands. Found-drowned missper goes to the bottom of the to-do list so you’re a godsend. Give me your number. I’m heading out in half an hour but keep me posted on this. Any thoughts before you see her?’
‘No, but I doubt if she was a suicide. Accident seems the most likely, though she knew every nook and cranny pretty well.’
‘Accidents still happen. People get careless, we see it all the time. Meet up with Doc Murray and get his certification and first opinion. He’ll bring the body over to the mortuary here.’
He had expected a crowd. There was always a crowd. People came out of nowhere, to hang about and stare and make ghoulish chat. But there were only a couple of young men, who were from the field centre and who were now guarding the body. They had covered it with a piece of plastic sheeting, weighted down with a few stones. They sat cross-legged on the wet and shining sand, like attendants at some primitive funeral.
‘Thanks for this. Not the best start to your day. I’m only filling in for the local police until they can get here, and the doctor’s on his way.’
‘Do you know who it is? There’s been someone missing, the local guy said.’
‘Yes. I’m just going to take a look. You didn’t move the body about?’
They were both standing now. ‘No. We didn’t touch it only it seemed wrong just to … you know, let her lie there like that.’
Simon knelt down and felt the water soak up into the knees of his trousers. He moved one of the lumps of rock and carefully slid the sheeting down a little way.
Sandy. And as he looked at her, he heard the engine of a motorboat coming in fast to the shore.
‘OK, guys, you don’t have to stay any longer. This is the doc. You might have to answer one or two formal questions later – how long are you at the field centre for?’
‘Three more days. You sure you don’t need us?’
‘You’ve done brilliantly, and thanks, but you go back now.’ The engine died and the motorboat ground to a halt in the sand.
‘Superintendent Serrailler? Ken Murray. Right. What have we?’
Brisk and to the point, efficient, clinical, but somehow also respectful of what was a fellow human being, not just a dead body. Like every pathologist Serrailler had ever met. The doctor got out his bag and unzipped his yellow waterproof and life jacket. He rolled the plastic sheet fully back. Behind them, the tide went out as calmly as it ever did on this coast.
He said nothing for many minutes, inspecting the body first entirely by eye, then with a light touch, disturbing as little as possible. Simon looked on. At Sandy’s hands. Face. Ankles. She was wearing a dark-coloured sweater. Jerkin with the collar zipped right up. Black jeans. One boot. The other was missing. Her hair was loose. She had no scarf or hat but those would have slipped off underwater. She was recognisable, but only just. A body which has been submerged and battered about in the sea is not a pleasant sight once it is washed up onshore.
‘Dead,’ Murray said, straightening up. ‘That’s the easy part done. Familiar?’
‘Sandy Murdoch. She lives on the island.’
‘Family here?’
‘No, she lived on her own. I don’t know much about her. Not sure anyone else does.’
They stood in silence for a second. Murray shook his head. ‘It’s never right,’ he said.
‘Fine, I’m not doing anything else here. Help me get her into the body bag and I’ll be on my way.’
It was not easy and they had to be careful. The flesh was already loosening. The fingers and palms were wrinkled. But the doctor was expert, his movements assured, he guided Serrailler with only a few words, and the body was on board, strapped down and secured. ‘You all right to get back?’
Simon nodded and watched the small boat turn and head east, picking up speed. He saw it almost out of sight before he looked down at the sand, marked and indented slightly where she had been washed up and lain. There was no point in securing the site even if he had the means to do it. The tide would wash everything clean and clear again in a few hours. And it was probably not a crime scene in any case.