What Will Burn

by James Oswald

  32

  ‘What do you know about witches, Gary?’

  It’s not a bar he’d come to normally, even if it’s not that far from his scabby bedsit. The beer’s way too pricey for one thing, and the punters are all office types in smart suits. For some reason Fielding seems to like it though, and since he’s generous when it comes to the drinks, who’s Gary to complain? All the same, the question catches him off guard.

  ‘Witches?’

  ‘Aye. Witches. What do you know about them?’

  ‘What? Pointy hats an’ long hook noses an’ stuff? Black cats and flying around the place on broomsticks?’

  Fielding’s face isn’t easy to read most of the time, but Gary’s not had much to drink yet and he can see the smirk. Bazza’s the same when he thinks he knows better than Gary. Trouble is, he’s usually right but they end up fighting about it anyways.

  ‘That’s the myth, of course. The fairy-tale witch. The old crone who might well heal you one day and curse you to death the next. That’s not what I’m talking about here.’

  Gary doesn’t say anything. Fielding invited him here, paid for his beer. Least he can do is hear the man out, aye?

  ‘The thing about myths though, Gary, is that they’re usually founded in truth. Even if that truth gets bent out of shape a little with time.’

  The smirk’s gone from Fielding’s face now, his expression entirely serious. Is it Gary’s imagination, or is there something different about his eyes, too? They seem to be glowing a dark red colour, but when he looks over his shoulder to see where the light is, there’s nothing to match. Brakes from a passing car reflected through the window. Aye, that’ll be it.

  ‘Those women camped outside the hotel the other day, remember? You think they might have been witches?’

  Gary can’t stop staring at Fielding’s eyes. ‘I . . . I dunno. I mean, they was acting pretty strange.’

  ‘What about the ones who broke into the conference room?’

  The memory sparks in Gary’s mind as clearly as if it were happening right in front of him. The redhead woman. Not much more than a girl really. Shouting abuse at him and Fielding as if they were the monsters, not her and her mad screaming friends. There’d been something about her, hadn’t there? Something more than unreasonable rage.

  ‘Aye. Thought they were on somethin’ right enough.’

  ‘Oh, it’s much worse than that, Gary. Those women weren’t high on any drug. No. They were high on their own magic. They’ve sold their souls to the devil, Gary. Given their bodies to him. And in return he has gifted them a power few understand.’ Fielding shakes his head slowly, and Gary can’t help but notice that the red glow doesn’t slide from his eyes as they move. It’s almost as unnerving as the topic of conversation. Is this what he was called here for? To be told women were witches? Well, he knew that already. Kind of.

  ‘You mean, like spells an’ stuff? Making youse sick or bringing bad luck on you?’

  Fielding tilts his head, the smile back but encouraging this time. ‘Well I don’t see you having much luck recently, Gary. Why do you suppose that is?’

  ‘I . . .’ He starts to speak, but can’t think what to say. It makes sense, after a fashion. ‘Bella? She’s no . . . Surely?’

  ‘It’s not necessarily her, Gary. Could be a friend of hers practises the dark arts. But this is the thing.’ Fielding leans forward, that gleam in his eyes like there’s a fire deep in his brain. ‘Witches aren’t all old crones with hairy warts and pointed hats. They walk among us unseen. Bear our children then take them from us. Sack us from the jobs we’ve done well all our working lives. Make screeching demands for equal rights when they’ve lived off the back of our hard labour since Eve first tempted Adam.’

  ‘But how—?’

  ‘Do we find them?’ Fielding interrupts, although that is just one of the many questions Gary wants to ask. ‘They’re easy enough to see once you know the signs. It’s dealing with them that’s more tricky. Would you like to know how to do that, Gary? How to get back what was taken from you by all those women? All those witches?’

  ‘I . . . I just want things to go back to how they were, ken?’

  ‘That’s all any of us want. But what are you prepared to do to get your wish? What sacrifice would you make?’

  Gary drags his gaze away from Fielding’s face, looks around the posh bar. The men here are all confident, wealthy, in charge. The few women look at their partners the way Bella used to look at him, back when they first met. They know their place, as they should. There’s a natural order to things, but outside these walls it’s out of kilter. If Fielding is offering him a chance to put that right, then who is he to turn it down?

  ‘What did you have in mind?’

  Interlude

  Grey clouds scud across a lowering sky, the wind whipping waves from the Forth, white horses dancing under wheeling gulls. In the distance, scarce visible through the haze, the lion’s head of Arthur’s Seat rises over Edinburgh and the king who is the source of her misfortune.

  ‘Elizabeth Simson. You have been accused of consorting with demons. By your foul practice of witchcraft have you brought famine and pestilence to this land.’

  They stand at the end of the long stone pier, sober men all dressed in black. Behind them, closer to shore and the derelict fishermen’s cottages, a crowd has gathered for the show. Not much entertainment to be had in these parts. Not much joy since the crops began to fail and the nets came up empty.

  ‘It is not too late for your soul to be saved. Confess to the sin of witchcraft, repent and throw yourself upon God’s mercy.’

  She stares out across the waves, doing her best to ignore the men behind her. Her time has come, she knows. The God of her tormentors has mercy only for the men who worship him. He has no time for women at all.

  ‘Do you confess your sins? Willingly and here before these witnesses?’

  Finally, she turns and faces the crowd, enjoying the momentary flinch on some faces, the involuntary step back as if she is some fearsome beast and not a tired old woman. What harm could she possibly do them? They have tied her with stout rope, hung heavy weights about her. She can do nothing but stare, and sneer.

  ‘And should I confess to a crime I have not committed, is that not yet a sin?’

  ‘Very well. If you will not confess, then it shall be for God himself to decide.’

  Their leader, the puffed up laird, nods to his two deputies. They step forward, uncertain at first but with growing conviction as they are not struck down. They guide her to the edge, and she looks down at the choppy water. It is not deep here, but it is deep enough.

  ‘You will be dead before the year is out, Master Thackray.’ She smiles as the words fall upon superstitious ears. They will take it as a curse, even though it is not. He has the marks on his skin where he has scratched himself, the tiny red spots mostly hidden by his white ruff collar. The ague is not a pleasant way to die, and that gives her some small comfort as she faces her own, swifter end.

  ‘Foul sorceress, your soul will burn in hell.’ He nods to the two men, and they shove her hard.

  It is a short fall to the water. The stones drag her under, and swiftly to the bottom. She panics then, even though she had promised herself she would not. A lifetime of study, of helping these poor, ignorant people, means that she knows all too well how long it takes for a person to drown. Her end will not be long, though it will certainly feel it.

  She holds her breath as if it was the most precious thing. The water is cold, sapping away the last of her strength as the light slowly fades to nothing. The panic lessens. She can feel herself slipping away, the blessed release almost upon her.

  And then the rope pulls tight, dragging her back upwards. She breaks the surface in an explosion of noise, sucks in air that never tasted so sweet. They haul her limp body back up onto the pier, dump her unce
remoniously at the feet of the magistrate. She has no strength to stand, so he crouches down to look her in the eye.

  ‘Do you confess, Bessie Simson? Will you repent of your sins and accept God into your heart?’

  She can see the hope in his eyes. He means to kill her whatever she says, but if she gives him what he wants then he will go home with his conscience clear. So it ever was. So it ever will be.

  The weight of her soaked dress drags her down, the ropes around her and the rocks tied to her legs. And yet she struggles to swaying feet. Her throat is raw, her voice husky and ominous as she stares first at the laird, then at all the others who have come to witness her execution.

  ‘With my dying breath I curse thee,’ she says, and falls back into the sea’s embrace.

  33

  The tinny electronic beep of his phone woke him from restless sleep. McLean rolled over, remembering a couple of seconds too late that Emma was on another continent. In the time it took him to reach for the handset, his mind went through the alarm at her not being there, through the relief that she hadn’t stormed out on him after yet another row, and on to the realisation that he wouldn’t see her again for weeks, maybe months. Last time they’d spoken, she’d sounded exhausted but excited at the discoveries they were making and the new skills she was learning. Had something happened to spoil that?

  ‘Hello?’ He did his best to keep the yawn out of his voice, and hoped that whoever was at the other end of the line couldn’t hear the noise of him rubbing sleep from his eyes.

  ‘Morning, sir. Sorry to call so early.’ Not Emma, but the unmistakable voice of Detective Sergeant Sandy Gregg. McLean pulled the phone from his ear for long enough to see that it was past six in the morning. Had he forgotten to set his alarm?

  ‘It’s not a problem, Sandy. What’s up?’ He swung his legs out from under the duvet, shivering slightly at the chill in the room. Approaching winter had overtaken the elderly and inefficient central heating system in the house, it would seem. Either that or he’d forgotten to switch it on yet.

  ‘Report’s just come in of a dead body. House over Fountainbridge way.’ She rattled off an address, and McLean’s mind wandered back to his meeting with the NCA detective, Ackerley. The bawbag who’d nicked his car had lived in Fountainbridge, but then so did a lot of other folk. Probably just a coincidence.

  ‘Any idea why CID need to get involved?’ He stared out the window at the darkness that was just beginning to melt away. The nights were fair drawing in now, mornings coming later and later. Soon he’d be leaving for work and coming home in the dark.

  ‘Not CID, sir. You in particular. Word came in from the chief superintendent’s office, apparently.’

  ‘That’s a bit irregular, isn’t it?’ The question was out before he realised he’d spoken it. ‘Sorry, Sandy. That’s unfair. I know you’re just the messenger. Send me the details and I’ll head straight there from home.’

  He hung up, put his phone down on the bedside table and wandered into the bathroom. By the time he was showered, dressed and ready to go, the name and address had arrived in a text. Little else to go on, which was strange. In the kitchen, Mrs McCutcheon’s cat looked up at him from her spot in front of the Aga. The other cat was nowhere to be seen, but when McLean pulled out a chair, it shot off in surprise. He was about to put the kettle on and see if the bread wasn’t too spotty for toasting when his phone buzzed the arrival of another text.

  Thx for taking this case. Swift report would mean a lot to me. Update as soon as you get in. Gail.

  He stared at the screen for a long time. He didn’t have the chief superintendent’s personal number in his address book, so his phone hadn’t tagged who the text was from. Plain enough to see from the message, though, and again highly irregular. McLean slid the handset back into his pocket, considering his options. He could go to the station, gather what information he could about this mysterious dead man beyond his name, address and the fact he was somehow connected to the deputy chief constable. Or he could go straight to that address and assess the situation for himself. Report back to Elmwood as requested, and maybe she’d stop picking on him as company for all her social engagements. Chance would be a fine thing, but if he dragged his feet over it she’d make his life even more miserable.

  He grabbed his coat and Emma’s keys, took one last look at the kitchen and decided breakfast could wait.

  ‘Looks like you two are on your own for the day,’ he said to the cats, now both curled up in front of the Aga. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

  Once again, McLean was thankful for Emma’s little Renault as he manoeuvred the car into a parking space his old Alfa would have fitted into about as well as the shop window that had killed it. He showed his warrant card to the uniformed constable guarding the front entrance to a nondescript modern terraced house. It was still early enough that there weren’t too many people about, lights on in the other houses suggesting that, unlike him, normal people were having breakfast before heading out to work.

  ‘Pathologist’s not long here, sir.’ The constable stood aside to let him in through the already open door. McLean nodded his thanks and stepped inside.

  A narrow hallway didn’t so much greet him as crowd his senses. McLean was no great student of architecture, but he was fairly sure whoever had designed this house hadn’t been either. It had quite clearly been built with a price in mind, and a low one at that. At least for the developer. Given the way house prices were going in the city these days, and the location of this particular terrace, the house was worth considerably more than the constable guarding it would be able to afford.

  An open flight of stairs climbed to the first floor, the hallway continuing past it to a pair of doors. Immediately to his left, another door stood open, revealing a depressingly small living room. Like many of its kind, it was dominated by an overly large flat-screen television, which served only to make the space feel even smaller than it really was. As did the handful of people clustered around an armchair whose back was to the door. McLean recognised Tom MacPhail. Standing a little further back, clearly uncertain what she should be doing or why she was even there, one of the new intake of detective constables watched nervously. The relief on her face as she saw him enter was palpable, if mixed with a certain trepidation.

  ‘DC Mitchell, isn’t it?’ McLean said as the constable edged around the room to greet him. She was much the same height as him, but bent her head and rounded her shoulders to make herself smaller in a manner that reminded him of Lofty Blane. Her dark skin and short, almost shaven, black hair marked her out both in the room and back at the station, where faces tended to be either pasty white or sunburned angry red.

  ‘Yes, sir. Cassandra,’ she helpfully reminded him. ‘Although people call me Cass.’

  ‘As long as they believe you when you tell them what the future holds.’

  The uncertain look returned, which suggested to McLean nobody had taught her Greek mythology. Something for another day, perhaps. He turned his attention to the pathologist, bent over as he peered at something in the chair.

  ‘OK if I come in, Tom?’

  ‘If you think you can fit,’ MacPhail said. ‘Shouldn’t be long here, mind you.’

  McLean inched a little more into the room. From where he stood he could see the top of a man’s head, thinning hair beginning to go grey. A hand lay on the arm of the chair, its fingers taped up with white gauze and a splint to keep them straight. The sight of it sent a little shiver of worry through him, and he stepped carefully around the pathologist until he could see the man full on.

  The thinning hair had been neatly trimmed at the front, framing a face that had seen battle fairly recently. Dark black bruises bulged under each of his staring eyes, yellowing at the edges. The bridge of his nose bore a cut from where it had been broken, the scab almost black. Along with the strapped-up fingers, it was obvious he’d been in a fight
, but something about the face seemed oddly familiar.

  ‘We know who he is?’ he asked.

  ‘Name’s Brian Galloway, sir.’ DC Mitchell pulled out a notebook but didn’t open it. ‘His mother found him like that when she popped round an hour ago.’

  An hour was good going for the pathologist to be out already. This Brian Galloway must have been important, or well connected. That might explain Elmwood’s interest. The name didn’t ring any bells, though.

  ‘Is she still here? The mother?’

  ‘Aye, sir. In the kitchen. Caitlin’s with her. PC Wells, that is.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll go and have a word with her in a moment. Why don’t you have a look round the place. See if anything looks unusual.’

  The detective constable nodded her understanding and edged out of the room. McLean turned his attention to the pathologist, crouching down to be on the same level as him. ‘What’s the story then?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘That much I can see. Any idea what killed him?’

  MacPhail shifted slightly, reaching a gloved hand in to gently manipulate the man’s damaged hand. ‘I only just got here, Tony. Give me a chance, eh? It wasn’t these injuries, for sure. They’re recent, but not life-threatening. Might possibly be a reaction to whatever painkillers they gave him. I’ll need to get him back to the mortuary to be sure.’

  ‘Do you think it might be . . . ?’ McLean was going to ask if it was suspicious, wondering why it was that he’d been called out to this scene if the death was most likely accidental. The look on the pathologist’s face persuaded him not to. ‘I’ll go and talk to the mother,’ he said instead, then levered himself back upright with only a minimum of groaning.

  ‘You do that, Tony. I’ll let you know what I find out as soon as I find it out, OK?’