The Nightmare Man: (Child of the Vodyanoi)

by David Wiltshire

  “Tell you after supper, you hungry bitch. ”

  She searched his face for a fraction of a second longer and then broke into a wide relieved smile.

  “Right.”

  She pulled open the small hall cupboard and took out her camel-haired coat.

  “Come on then. Old Cruickshank will be doing his nut.”

  They clattered down the iron steps and clung to each other as they made their way along the windy streets to the town’s main hotel, The Ardrossan Arms. Its wide Victorian entrance hall was guarded by the double opaque glass doors that had faced the elements for over one hundred years.

  Fiona waved to the girl sitting at the reception desk as they headed down the heavily carpeted corridor from which richly appetising smells floated. They hung their coats on the wall pegs and entered the small banquet room at the rear of the hotel.

  The room was packed. Contrary to what summer visitors thought, usually summed up in the phrase, “Beautiful, but I wouldn’t like to live here in the winter” the local population were not dreary people living a drab existence. Cruickshank could count on a full dining room for the weekly dinner-dance.

  Nearly all the eyes turned when they entered, and as they moved to their table they were greeted by everyone they passed. It amused Dunlop to know that a lot of the intense talking that ensued, heads fractionally closer, was about them.

  When he had arrived on the island it hadn’t taken him long to meet Fiona, since the three doctors, two dentists and two vets all relied on her for their prescriptions and wholesale purchase of drugs. At first he couldn’t understand why she was apparently not married, coming up as she was to about twenty-seven or eight he figured, and was hesitant to follow up his natural desire to get to know her better until he had been told by one of the doctors that she had been married, back on the Mainland, a state from which she had escaped with the resolve never to become involved again. That somehow made her even more of a challenge.

  But Fiona Patterson had a will of her own. Although they soon became good friends, she made it quite clear that it was not going to lead to marriage, as much as she liked him. The “liking” even extended to going to bed together, regularly, mostly at her place.

  The town was soon agog with the news when he was seen leaving one morning.

  Dunlop had occasion to muse on the fact that because they were both well liked, came from outside the community, and were essential professionally to its well-being, that their affair was not just tolerated in what was a very chaste puritan society, but actually looked upon with a sort of inverted proud amusement.

  But even so, he knew it was widely believed that they would marry and expected dates for the day were often bandied around among the women, while the men, away from their wives, speculated on the passionate nature of that “fine young thing who ran the chemist’s”, and of the good time Ian Dunlop was having before the bairn came and slowed things down.

  Then they would drink their whisky and chase it down with beer, puffing their pipes and reflecting back in the firelight to their own vigorous youth.

  He helped Fiona to the table and sat down himself. After they had ordered, and their usual bottle of wine had been delivered and poured, Fiona looked firmly at him.

  “Now then, what’s the mystery?”

  Dunlop felt the unease grip hold of him, evaporating the struggling pleasantness that had, fragilely, grown since he had met her.

  He leaned forward, and beckoned her to do the same. Puzzled, she complied.

  “I was on the golf course this afternoon and...”

  . She smiled, knowing his trouble with the game.

  “... I found the mutilated body of a woman.”

  Fiona recoiled in horror, as though he had slapped her face. “What! Are you joking?”

  Dunlop shook his head.

  She said nothing for a moment before whispering, “God. How horrible. Who was it?”

  He lowered his voice even more and told her the rest, and why there could be no identification yet.

  She shuddered.

  “It’s hard to believe. That sort of thing doesn’t happen here—not in Inverdee.” '

  He gave a grunt.

  “You’d believe it all right if you’d been there.’

  She sagged back into her chair.

  “What’s Duncan doing about it?”

  He told her about the sealing off of the island, and about the call for Doctor Mackay who was the part-time police surgeon, having been on a Home Office forensic course in Glasgow.

  She pulled her cardigan protectively around her.

  “Do you think the murderer is still here, maybe in the town?”

  “If he lives here—yes”

  Fiona’s face spasmed with disgust.

  “That’s not possible. I just won’t believe it. It must be somebody from the Mainland.”

  Their starters arrived, fortunately stopping further speculation.

  The evening was spoilt, the air of foreboding clouding all attempts at light-heartedness.

  When they walked home, Dunlop was aware of Fiona’s fingers digging into his arm, especially past the dark alleyways. He noticed she hesitated momentarily before pushing open the door to her unlit flat.

  She made coffee while he stoked up the fire and sorted through the records, finally selecting a Brahms. They sat on the floor before the fire, backs to the settee. Dunlop put his arm around her when she nestled up.

  “Better now?”

  She nodded.

  When the music ended he made to move, never staying overnight during the week. It was a sort of rule of hers, even if they made love.

  “Ian.”

  “Yes.”

  “Stay tonight?”

  He buried his face into the sweet smelling hair and kissed behind her ears.

  Later, as they lay in bed, Fiona fast asleep, he listened to the rain beating on the window, and thought of those poor bastards up at the golf course.

  It watched the two men as a match flared and lit their faces, casting their images momentarily in its glass eyepieces. The breathing was heavy, laboured, causing an intermittent vacuum in the tube that sucked and pulled at the mask. The pain came again.

  * * *

  The grunt was muffled, but something, perhaps because of their heightened senses, made the two policemen freeze.

  They stopped talking and looked nervously out into the night, but made no attempt to investigate.

  The rain continued to hammer down, sleet now showing in the beams that they aimed into the trees. Something flashed like a reflection of metal as a dark shape blended back into the trees.

  “Christ, Jimmy, ye see that?”

  “What?”

  “There was a movement, and something glittered.”

  The policeman took another drag on his cigarette and stamped his freezing feet.

  “Dinna be daft. Anyway, our orders were to stay here man. If it’s our boy, there’s time enough in the morning. He’ll be going nowhere out there tonight, that’s for sure.”

  He shuddered further into his coat.

  “And with a bit of luck the weather’ll kill the bastard who did this.”

  It seemed to satisfy his colleague.

  So they escaped death.

  5

  At daybreak Inskip, Dr Mackay and several uniformed men moved down the wet fairway. The rain had stopped, but the grass and trees were outlined with millions of glistening drops of water that blended into the mist that hung over the trees obscuring the mountains and loch.

  Mackay was in his late fifties, a silver-haired man with a weather-beaten face that was in contrast to those of his colleagues in the big cities.

  The men’s breath hung in the air as they gathered around Inskip while Mackay stooped down out of sight behind the screen that had been erected.

  The chill morning air was punctuated by flashes as the police photographer, a man called Thom who also owned the Elgin Portrait Studies in town, got down to work. His hands were
shaking so much that he was taking more shots than usual, just to be sure he was getting the gruesome thing that filled his viewfinder clear and not blurred on print. He tried to think of something else as he worked.

  Mackay wasn’t long. He came back pulling off the thin transparent polythene gloves he had donned.

  Inskip turned from supervising a search of the area by his men.

  “Well?”

  Mackay shook his head in disbelief.

  “I don’t know what to say—I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Inskip looked at him critically.

  “Well, for starters—cause of death?”

  Mackay continued to shake his head as he dropped the discarded gloves into a polythene bag.

  “Massive haemorrhage—she died fighting. Cause of death, heart failure. But one thing’s for sure—” He waved his arm towards the canvas, “—it wasn’t there that she was done for, there’s not enough blood around. Disembowelled while still fresh—yes, but not actually killed.”

  Inskip couldn’t suppress a shudder.

  “If we found the head, would you be able to say that’s where she was killed?”

  Mackay’s lip curled.

  “Find it, and the bloodstains around about will tell you that without me having to.”

  Inskip nodded.

  “I see. So whoever did it will also have been covered, and trying to dispose of his clothing?”.

  “If he’s your regular psychopath with periods of normal behaviour—yes.”

  “And you don’t think that?”

  Mackay looked intensely at the policeman and growled.

  “Do you?”

  Inskip accepted the point with a nod.

  “Was she sexually assaulted?”

  The doctor shook his head.

  “You saw her. She’s been ripped asunder. I might be able to tell you more later, but at a guess I’d say this was not that sort of crime. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Inskip scratched his chin thoughtfully.

  “Perhaps we’ve got our own Jack-the-Ripper. What about the pieces of her insides?” He gestured upwards in the trees. Mackay shrugged his shoulders.

  “Looks to me as if they have just been flung there, over her assailant’s shoulder in a frenzy. Certainly not placed deliberately in a ritual pattern. If I didn’t know that there are no big predators around here, I would swear it was the work of an animal—and a funny one at that.”

  He clipped his bag together.

  “When you’re ready I’ll have the body up at the mortuary and see if I can add anything, but I’m thinking you might be needing more help on this one, Duncan?”

  Inskip gave a weak smile.

  “I’ve already requested a full murder squad from Glasgow, Doctor. They should be here on the next boat in.”

  Mackay nodded his agreement at a wise decision, and took out his silver hip flask, unscrewed the cap and offered it to the policeman.

  “Not just now thanks, Doctor.”

  Mackay said no more, and put it to his lips. When he brought his head down again he screwed the lid back on without comment.

  “Well, the living must come before the dead, Duncan, so I’ll away on a visit to Mrs Fergusson’s up at Braeside just now. I’ll have another look at the body at about two o’clock if that’s all right with you?”

  “Of course.”

  When he’d gone, Inskip steeled himself to go back to the body. The photographer had finished for the moment, and was thankfully walking up and down on the fairway, waiting to take further frames as and when required.

  Inskip pulled on his own polythene gloves and prepared for the unwelcome job of searching pockets, moving limbs and trying to find some clue as to her identity. As he brushed past the branches a shower of water fell on him, and got down under his collar.

  Dunlop stirred and blinked his eyes open. His arm was aching, still under Fiona’s head, but she had turned her back on him. For a moment he thought it was Sunday. Then he remembered what he was doing here. He checked the time on his watch, and shot up, rolling Fiona roughly to one side. He slung a leg over her as she gave a squeal.

  “Get up,” he shouted, “it’s ten to nine.”

  It galvanized her to respond without thinking. They met in the bathroom doorway, slamming the door violently inwards. Both wide awake now they looked at each other and laughed. Dunlop stood back and bowed.

  “After you, madam.”

  Fiona slipped through.

  “Come on—we’ll share.”

  He hung back momentarily, grasping the implication of this new intimacy, and then followed gratefully after her.

  Over a hurried breakfast, a piece of toast and a cup of coffee taken standing up, he tested her.

  “Sharing beds and now bathrooms. It’s really being married, isn’t it?”

  Fiona flushed and put her cup down.

  “Right, I’m away.”

  Disappointed that she hadn’t responded to his hint, he put his half-finished cup down and followed her into the hall.

  There was a single letter on the door mat. Fiona stooped to pick it up. When she caught sight of the writing on the envelope she seemed to stiffen.

  He picked up her coat.

  “Shall I see you tonight?”

  Fiona didn’t reply.

  Dunlop, aware that she was over-staring at the letter, suddenly felt a twinge of last night’s unease.

  “Anything the matter?”

  She seemed to start, as though she had forgotten he was there.

  “What?”

  He nodded.

  “The letter. Do you know it contains bad news or something?”

  “Oh.” She gave a smile that failed miserably to convince him, and stuffed the letter into her pocket. “No, it’s nothing.” He helped her on with her coat, and then repeated his question.

  “Shall I see you tonight?”

  “No.”

  His face must have showed hurt at the abrupt, quick refusal. She relented and added, “I want to wash my hair, write some letters. You know, generally catch up on the week.”

  “I see. What about Friday for the Ward’s party?”

  She frowned, knowing he was upset.

  “Of course. Don’t be silly.”

  She reached up and gave him a quick kiss.

  “And thanks for staying last night.”

  He grinned at last.

  “The pleasure was all mine.”

  She laughed, more like her old self as she opened the door.

  “Oh no it wasn’t.”

  Then she was gone.

  He closed the door and started his wait of two minutes, all he could allow for decency.

  But somehow the unease lingered on. It irritated him. It was as though it was something he had caught last night and was now going to be subject to forever—like hay fever.

  He didn’t last out the two minutes.

  The brisk walk to his surgery over the insurance chambers in the main square seemed to help.

  Inskip followed the stretcher party with the shroud-wrapped corpse to the back of the police Land-Rover. When it was stowed, and the plastic bags with the extras alongside, he thankfully waved the driver to carry on. Wheels slipping, it slowly moved away, bumping and swaying out of sight on its journey to the mortuary.

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  He turned to find Sergeant Robertson standing beside him.

  “Yes Hamish?”

  “One of the constables on watch last night reports he may have seen something—someone—moving in the woods.”

  Inskip tensed.

  “Which constable—where is he?”

  “Campbell—he’s here, sir.”

  The young man stepped forward.

  Inskip looked at him levelly.

  “What did you see?”

  “Nothing definite, sir. I just thought I saw a movement, and my light beam momentarily reflected back at me.”

  The Inspector’s voice was harsh.

  “Di
d you go and have a look?”

  “No, sir, I didn’t think I should leave Johnson alone. Just in case,” he added lamely.

  Inskip relented, softening his tone.

  “Very well. Show me where this was.”

  Gingerly they picked their way further into the trees.

  “About here I’d say, sir.”

  Inskip sank to his haunches and looked around. Although the ground was sodden, it was firm with fallen pine needles. There were no footprints.

  The others followed his lead and fanned out, carefully searching the area in front of them. Inskip was straightening up when Robertson gave a shout from the direction of the loch. As Inskip drew nearer he could see the big sergeant was actually standing on the loch shore.

  “What is it?”

  Robertson said nothing but pointed to the ground at his side.

  The track was in a small stretch of sand between the rocks, and led straight to the water’s edge.

  Inskip eased himself down and sat on one of the large stones, staring at the trail before him, utterly baffled. There were two sets of marks, obviously footprints. But they were not easily recognizable as such. They were really just curious blurred depressions.

  At first he considered the possibility that someone had used a boat and walked ashore but then a shout from one of the other men took him to a bigger stretch of sand further up the beach.

  His eyes followed the track as it traversed the smooth virgin surface—until it abruptly stopped three quarters of the way along. The only other marks were two long parallel ridges, clean cut, thin, obviously man made. Something had rested there.

  Inskip eased his cap up and scratched his tightening forehead, precursor of a headache.

  “Now what the hell am I supposed to make of that?”

  6

  Ian Dunlop finished his last patient of the morning with a flourish.

  “There you are, Mrs McFadden.,>

  He handed her a mirror. She took it eagerly and viewed the newly crowned incisor with evident pleasure, but almost immediately touched her hair and looked over her face generally.

  Dunlop smiled. He’d noticed long ago that the ladies, given a mirror, checked everything. Whether it was an instinct, or an acquired reflex, he wasn’t sure.