Mo Hayder - Pig Island

We headed to the top of the green in the direction of a van marked 'Dockards and Vinty, Land Surveyors. 3D Laser Technology'. Rubberized power cables snaked out of it, linking it to a generator, and behind it, parked so it blocked the windows of the Garricks' cottage, stood a mobile officer trailer, the Strathclyde logo printed on the door.

'Control point,' said Struthers, mounting the steps. 'Hey, boss,' he said, to the interior. 'I'm back.'

The trailer creaked a bit, Danso maybe turning to face him. 'Christ, Callum, have a word with George, will you? Chief's given him a title, keep him sweet — senior identification manager. Now he thinks he runs the show — says he needs a casualty bureau with six phone lines, ten staff and five more men out here at locus. That's fifteen men! Meanwhile I've got a procedures adviser on the phone to me every two minutes with a new bit of policy he's remembered, an incident room the size of my hand and a HOLMES team busy screwing every penny of overtime they can out of me.' He sighed audibly. 'You find me dead somewhere, Callum, look for the puncture marks on my neck because this Major Incident protocol is sucking the blood out of me.'

'I've got the witnesses.'

Danso stood up. He came to the back of the trailer and peered out at us. 'I'm sorry.' He jumped off the steps and shook our hands. He was wearing a fleece in place of his suit jacket and his skin was grey — like he hadn't slept. 'I'm sorry — I thought you were coming after lunch.' He peered at me. 'Well?' he said. 'Did you sleep OK?'

'It's warm. The house.'

He smiled. 'Good. And have you had your breakfast?'

I nodded, letting a kind of half-laugh come out of my nose. 'Now you're going ask me am I ready for this.'

'Aye. And what's the answer?'

'No. Of course it's no. I'll do it, but I'm never going to be ready.'

Turns out these Strathclyde lads aren't the genius bizzies they fancy themselves. They knew I was a journalist, Struthers had given me chapter and verse about it, but did anybody search me that morning on Cuagach? Did anybody find the mini digital camera stashed in my jacket? Did they fuck.

At ten thirty Angeline went away with Danso and a small bald man — 'The Crime Scene Manager', Struthers told me. She was going to show them where she'd been hiding when she saw her father pushing the explosives into the chapel window, which route he'd taken to arrive there, so they could sketch it out and get a laser 3D capture for Forensics. Someone brought Wellington boots and gloves for me, and Struthers and me headed off to the north, following photocopied sheets that flapped on tree-trunks: Body Holding Area This Way

It was a leafy path I'd never been along before, quiet and cold. To its right, the land sloped down to the rocks and from time to time a wind came up off the sea and slapped us with its salty spray. On our left was the dark forest, where police tape fluttered among the tree-trunks. Beyond the tape I could see white lines laid out on the ground like a grid, each line numbered with a red marker.

'You know what I was thinking?' Struthers said. 'I was just thinking, this place must be covered with your prints, eh?'

There was something needling in his tone. I didn't look at him. 'Yeah, I suppose.'

'How about in the chapel?'

'I was in there once,' I said, 'for about five minutes. I told you yesterday. Remember? You got elimination prints from me at the station.'

'So, nothing else, then? The CSM's not going to find anything else, hairs or other — uh — traces?' He gave me an unhealthy smile, showing dull yellow teeth. 'I mean, old man, you were on the island for a few days, and things happen between people. Know what I mean?'

I stopped. He'd gone on a few steps before he realized I wasn't with him. He came to a halt and looked at me. The end of his nose and the tips of his ears were a bit red from the exercise. Behind him, out to sea, the horizon was a dark, unwavering blue.

'No,' I said coldly. 'I don't know what you mean.'

'Just trying to work out what sort of relationship you had with these people. Whether it was good or not.'

'It was good. But not so good that I fucked any of them, if that's what you're asking.'

Struthers laughed and turned, continuing down the path, his hands in the air. 'OK, OK. Just trying to get a feel for what the atmosphere was like out here. Sue me. There's a CAP 1 form back at the station.'

I didn't move. I let him go on ahead, watching his back, fleshy and broad-shouldered. We were destined not to get along, Callum Struthers and me. Star-crossed sparrers. He was everything I'd expected from a Strathclyde bizzy: overdressed, opinionated, vain. He tried to sound more intelligent than he was (why did he think it was smarter to say 'individual' and not 'person'?) and he smelt like he was on one of those diets that give you kidney damage. Struthers, for his part, had taken one look at me with my scabbing knees and my Scouse accent and I know the first thing that went through his head was Is there any way I can make this guy's life really difficult?

Now he disappeared round the bend ahead, leaving me alone on the path. And there, I saw, he'd given me a little gift, although he didn't know it. I counted off a few beats of time, then turned and peered into the trees. The chapel was somewhere in there, only a few hundred yards up, if I'd got my bearings right. 'Video,' someone was shouting from deep in the trees. 'Video, please. Over here — eighty-three/twenty. Can you hear me, camera team? Need video at eighty-three/twenty.''

I pulled out my camera, crouched under the police tape, steadied my hands on a branch — couldn't use flash — and rattled off ten photos. I shielded my eyes and checked the display. The zoom wasn't great, but you could just make out two ghostly figures in pale blue suits half hidden by the dark tree-trunks. The search-and-recovery team. Not outstanding as photos go, but not bad.

'Hey?' Struthers called from ahead. His voice was faint. 'You with me?'

I ducked out of the forest, pocketing the camera, back on to the path. It turned left, away from the cliff, and led upwards into the forest. There, about a hundred yards ahead, he was standing, watching me.

'This is it,' he said, as I joined him. 'I think this is it.'

We turned and looked down to where the land dipped, forming a natural hollow, cold and leaf-shaded, shielded on the coastal side by screens. One or two sharp blades of sun pointed like lasers through the tree canopy. It was weirdly silent, the only sound the low humming of the generator that powered two refrigeration trucks. We were looking at their roofs, the ventilators opened to the fresh air. Next to them was a packing crate the size of a small car. It had been opened so you could see the contents: grey fibreglass coffins, opaque like cocoons, piled one on top of another. A photographer, in a green fluorescent tabard, helmet and boots, stood in front of the crate, peering down at the display on his camera, scrolling through shots like I'd just been doing.

Struthers ran his hand across the back of his head. He didn't speak. You could tell from his face he didn't want to be here.

'Come on, then.'

We started down the path. We were half-way into the clearing when the doors of the nearest truck opened. George, the guy I'd spent the afternoon with at Oban, jumped out. He was wearing full body-suit and galoshes, and was followed by another man dressed the same. They both said something to the photographer, who lowered the camera and looked up into the woods in the opposite direction from me and Struthers. They all stood for a while, looking expectantly in the same direction towards the chapel. After a few moments there was a rustle of leaves and two members of the search-and-recovery team came quickly out of the trees, almost at a jog. Between them they carried something heavy wrapped in thick plastic, a pink form taped to the top of it. They lowered the package to the ground, said something to George, then swivelled and headed back into the woods at the same half-jog. The three men gathered round the package.