The Special Dead

by Lin Anderson

  Bill indicated he wanted silence while Magnus composed himself before speaking.

  ‘I was involved in an extensive study of Witchcraft for an Orkney project some years back and when Dr MacLeod showed me images of the cord, it triggered a memory of a cingulum. The cingulum is used in a variety of rituals and should be nine feet in length with nine knots in it. It should also be red to represent the life blood. When sexual magick is performed, the two participants are bound together round the waist by the cingulum. However, contrary to popular belief, reinforced by the Christian Church, Wicca is not satanistic. The Wiccan Rede in its briefest form says “An’ Ye Harm None, Do What Ye Will.”’

  He continued, ‘The Wiccan religion has dual deities in the God and Goddess, often represented by small statues. Unlike in Christianity, in Wicca the male and female are regarded as equals – in fact, the Goddess is often seen as the more powerful and influential of the two.’

  Bill intervened at this point. ‘In your opinion, did the victim’s death have anything to do with Wicca?’

  ‘There are ways it may have,’ Magnus said.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Three possible scenarios suggest themselves. One, that the sexual partner reacted badly to the idea that he was being used in a spell and killed the victim for that reason. Two, they were both participants in a sexual game which went too far. However, I’m unaware of a ritual using sexual magick where auto-erotic practice is involved. And thirdly, the cingulum may have been used simply because it was available to the perpetrator, and had no significance for him whatsoever.’ Magnus ground to a halt, his expression suggesting he was clear on nothing, and had therefore not been much help.

  Bill thanked Magnus anyway, and moved on to dealing out jobs, which the team looked relieved about. Working out who had killed Leila Hardy was, in their eyes, a better proposition than why it had been done.

  Once he’d set everyone to work, Bill asked DS Clark to get DS McNab on the phone and find out why the hell he hadn’t come to the meeting.

  12

  McNab tried the doorbell one more time and listened to it echo in what sounded like an empty flat. It seemed that Shannon Jones was neither at work, nor at home.

  Why didn’t he believe that?

  McNab held open the letter box and peered inside. The poor view this afforded was of a small shadowy hallway with three doors leading off, only one of which was closed.

  ‘Shannon,’ he called, trying to keep his voice friendly. ‘Shannon, it’s DS McNab.’

  His attempt was greeted by silence.

  ‘Shannon, please open the door. I’d like to speak to you.’

  When there was no response to his second plea, McNab tried a different tack.

  ‘I have news on how Leila died.’

  Shannon had been very keen to know what had happened to her friend. If she was in there, surely that would bring her to the door, ill or not?

  It didn’t.

  McNab checked his watch. He was now late for the strategy meeting, and he didn’t have the decent excuse of a chat with Shannon Jones about her dead pal. He stood for a moment contemplating his choices, which, he decided, were limited. Either he forced entry or he walked away and faced the music back at the station. McNab examined his reason for coming here one more time and found it still valid. He was uneasy about the well-being of Shannon Jones. If he walked now, he would be none the wiser.

  McNab pushed the letter box open again, and then he spotted it. A pool of water seeping from under the only shut door in the hallway.

  Jesus, what has she done?

  McNab put his shoulder to the door. The force he exerted rattled the door in its frame, but that was all.

  Fuck’s sake.

  Pulling out his wallet, he fished out his Costa Coffee card. The tried and trusted method of springing a snib on a door, but only if she hadn’t turned a mortice lock as well.

  It took no more than a second to slip the card between the door and its frame. Another to find the right combination of angle and force, then the snib clicked free and McNab stepped into the hall. He didn’t bother checking the rooms that lay open but made immediately for the third, squelching across a sodden carpet, while praying she hadn’t locked herself in.

  She hadn’t. The door swung back to reveal the real reason Shannon Jones hadn’t answered his calls.

  This time, there was an upturned chair in the room. Tilted against a filled bath, its rear two legs were off the ground. Sitting on it was a naked Shannon, her head and shoulders submerged, tendrils of blonde hair floating in strands on the surface of the water.

  Christ, girl. What happened?

  McNab reached in and gently lifted her head, already knowing that Shannon Jones was long gone. The pretty face was white and puckered, the lips a mottled blue. The cold eyes that stared up at him seemed to say Why didn’t you come sooner?

  McNab checked the remainder of the flat. The main room, which also housed a small kitchen area, looked undisturbed. Entering the bedroom, he immediately caught a strong scented smell. On the floor at the foot of the bed was a circular green mat. Around its perimeter were four candles, one still fluttering, emitting the fragrance he’d caught on entry.

  As McNab watched, the final candle spluttered and went out.

  He had no idea what the circle and the candles meant, but instinct told him that Shannon had constructed it as an imagined place of safety. A forlorn hope as evidenced by the scene in the bathroom. McNab felt something akin to despair wash over him. Shannon had been shocked and terrified by her friend’s death. That much had been plain at her interview. She’d also been adamant that Leila hadn’t taken her own life.

  McNab had assumed that Shannon, like him, considered the man Leila had taken home as being instrumental in her death. She’d even blamed herself for not spotting the danger.

  But had that been the whole truth?

  Shannon had denied all knowledge of the dolls’ room, which McNab found hard to believe if they were such good mates. Then she’d blurted out that Leila had been into New Age things, as though that was nothing to do with her.

  Looking at the circle and the candles suggested McNab’s instinct had been right. Whatever Leila had been involved in, so too had Shannon.

  With a heavy heart, McNab pulled out his mobile and dialled the station.

  Janice answered almost immediately.

  ‘Where the hell are you?’ she began.

  McNab interrupted her. ‘Can you get a forensic team and pathologist to come to . . .’ He gave her the address.

  ‘Who—?’ she began.

  ‘Shannon Jones. I found her drowned in the bath.’

  ‘My God.’ The shock in her voice was palpable.

  ‘Can you organize a team?’ McNab said. ‘I’ll stay here and wait for them.’

  Janice had collected herself. ‘Of course. Do you want Dr MacLeod to come?’

  McNab didn’t answer immediately. Rhona didn’t have to do the forensic but then again if it wasn’t suicide, and there was a link to Leila’s death, Rhona’s expertise would be the best option.

  ‘Try her first,’ he said.

  ‘Will do.’

  McNab rang off. For the first time since he’d been off the drink, he had an almost unbearable craving for it. Had a half-bottle been in his pocket, he wouldn’t have hesitated. If he were at home now, the bottle in the kitchen cupboard would have been out and open.

  He checked his hands and found they were trembling. What he needed was the buzz of strong coffee to dull the craving, but there was little chance of that until the team arrived. He checked his pockets for any sign of a packet of cigarettes, his other habit, which he’d beaten before but which occasionally raised itself from the grave, trying to steer him into one.

  Thankfully there were no remnants of his smoking days lurking anywhere in his jacket. So McNab chose to do the only compulsive action left to him. He strode up and down in an agitated fashion.

  The first cop car arrived twent
y minutes later. After Janice brought him briefly up to date on the strategy meeting, McNab handed over the preservation of the crime scene to her, then took himself outside, ostensibly for some fresh air, but really to await the arrival of Dr MacLeod, which occurred ten minutes later.

  ‘What happened?’ she said as soon as she stepped out of the van.

  ‘Shannon didn’t go in to work the last two days and I couldn’t reach her by phone. So I decided to come and find her. That’s why I wasn’t at the meeting.’

  Rhona’s expression told him that she could read him like a book. His thoughts, his distress, his horror at what he’d found and what she must now face herself.

  ‘You did the right thing,’ she said.

  McNab didn’t reply.

  Rhona pulled on her forensic suit. ‘Bill will be here shortly. He says to stay put, he wants to talk to you.’

  ‘There’s a coffee shop on the corner. Tell him I’ll be there,’ McNab said.

  As he set off, he prayed that there wouldn’t be a pub in the vicinity of the coffee shop, and definitely not one en route. His prayers were thankfully answered.

  He stepped into the cafe and quickly ordered two double espressos. Carrying both to an unoccupied table, McNab drank one down and waited for the craving to subside.

  When the caffeine hit home, he pushed the empty cup to one side and drew the full one in front of him. He then tried to order his thoughts in advance of DI Wilson’s appearance. It wasn’t just the coffee that had driven him here. McNab really didn’t want to face the boss while Rhona was in the vicinity. However much they may have appeared to patch things up, there was still an awkwardness between them, and he was pretty sure the boss had spotted it.

  Therefore the less he saw of them together, the better.

  When DI Wilson arrived minutes later, McNab was struck by how thin and tired he looked. His stint at home should have seen the boss rested, but McNab had gathered from Janice that watching his wife deal with the return of her cancer had eaten away at Bill, so much so that Margaret had ordered him back to work.

  The depth of commitment between the boss and his wife was something McNab admired. At times, he thought he wanted something similar for himself, but couldn’t see it ever happening. His personal relationships seemed to be motivated, for the most part, by lust. Self-sacrifice just didn’t figure anywhere in them.

  But if he met the right woman?

  I have met the right woman. It’s just that the feeling isn’t mutual.

  Bill acknowledged his sergeant’s presence and the two espresso cups in front of him.

  ‘Another?’

  ‘I still have one to drink, sir.’

  Bill ordered a filter coffee with cold milk and carried it over to the table.

  ‘Has anyone filled you in on what happened at the strategy meeting?’

  ‘I heard from DS Clark that Professor Pirie knows a lot about Witchcraft,’ McNab said drily.

  Bill ignored the barbed nature of the reply and continued, ‘He had some interesting theories involving the Wiccan religion, which appeared to fit with what Rhona found at the crime scene.’

  ‘There’s a suggestion of something similar at Shannon’s place,’ McNab admitted, describing the mat and candles.

  Bill looked thoughtful at that. ‘Have you had any luck tracing the man Leila took home with her?’

  ‘We have a decent description and I’m waiting for results from the security cameras.’

  ‘And now another death. Did Shannon Jones say anything to you that suggested she was afraid for her life or that she might be suicidal?’

  ‘She was very shocked and upset about Leila, but was adamant that Leila wouldn’t have hanged herself.’

  ‘Which we now believe to be true.’ Bill paused. ‘We have to pick up the main suspect and soon.’

  ‘We will,’ McNab said.

  ‘What about the other guy?’

  ‘The description of him isn’t so good. I’m hoping he’ll appear on the camera in the back lane. We think he may have left that way.’

  ‘Could they be working as a pair?’

  ‘It’s something I’ve considered.’

  ‘I want to know if Leila was a practising Witch, and if so, who she was practising with. Check with the Tech department. See what they have from the mobile and laptop.’ A thought struck him. ‘What about a mobile or laptop in Shannon’s flat?’

  McNab said no. It had been the first thing he’d checked for. ‘Maybe the search team will have more luck.’

  Bill observed his sergeant.

  ‘Why did you force the door?’

  McNab hesitated as though he wasn’t sure how to answer that. ‘A gut feeling, sir.’

  That was good enough for Bill. ‘I want you to liaise with Professor Pirie on the Witchcraft angle. He has the knowledge.’

  McNab’s expression suggested that was the last thing he wanted to do, but he didn’t argue, which Bill realized was probably a first.

  13

  The pathologist had come and gone, required only to certify death.

  The dribbling tap had been turned off, but the water still lapped around her feet, transferring any movement Rhona made into tiny waves of energy that crossed the floor tiles to break against the pile of the hall carpet.

  The bathroom was small. Not much bigger than a coffin.

  Rhona had heard about Leila’s friend, who had been with her the night she’d died, but hadn’t viewed an image of her. The hair floating in tendrils in the water reminded Rhona of a painting of Ophelia. Contrary to popular opinion, drowning wasn’t an easy death, unless the victim was comatose to begin with.

  The notion that you could enter water, deny your lungs air and not experience pain and terror, was a cruel fallacy. Which was why waterboarding as a means of torture was so widely used and successful.

  She had already taken her ‘before’ photographs, as had the Return To Scene team. Now, they would require taking again, without the water. As the last liquid was pumped out of the bath into a container to be transported to the lab, Rhona took close-ups of the exposed face and upper body, then stepped outside and gave the Return To Scene personnel access. Their 360-degree recordings of before and after would be invaluable.

  McNab had departed, due, Rhona surmised, to her presence or a desire for Bill not to engage with them together. A wise move on McNab’s part. Rhona was well aware that the tension between them was tangible, despite their mutual agreement to ‘let things lie’. Secrets had a habit of revealing themselves, eventually.

  And Bill, she knew, was a natural detective.

  Still, she reminded herself, I made the right decision.

  Waiting for R2S to complete their recording, Rhona checked out the other rooms in the flat. A forensic team was already at work, eyes above the masks acknowledging Rhona’s presence. The flat was tidy and pretty in an understated way. No room of hanging dolls, no evidence of anything but normality, except in the bedroom.

  A circular mat had been laid out at the foot of the bed. Around it, at four locations, stood candles. Rhona’s first thought was that Shannon had been meditating recently, soft music and candlelight being a common method of relaxation. Then again, the circular mat might have something to do with the Witchcraft angle.

  With that in mind, she gave Magnus a call.

  ‘Describe the bedroom scene to me,’ he said.

  Rhona did so, including the candles.

  ‘Are they set at the points of the compass?’

  Rhona tried to work out where north was via her knowledge of Glasgow landmarks.

  ‘Probably,’ she said. ‘Any chance you could come and take a look?’

  ‘I have a lecture shortly, so it will have to be after that,’ Magnus said.

  ‘Not a problem, I’m likely to be here for some time.’

  Rhona rang off and headed back to the bathroom.

  Roy Hunter and his colleagues at R2S had worked alongside Rhona on many jobs, including the most recent Stonewarrio
r case. Vastly experienced, particularly in some of the more forensically challenging crime scenes, Rhona always valued Roy’s opinion.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Suicide drownings usually involve slit wrists and a warm bath. So I don’t buy the chair and submersion,’ Roy said. ‘Who would hold their own head under water long enough to drown? But, then again, she may have been under the influence of drugs or drink at the time.’

  Roy’s thoughts mirrored her own. If Shannon had taken her own life, then it was a difficult way to do it. McNab had reported her as very distressed and frightened by her friend’s death, so there was no doubt she was in a vulnerable state. The scene in the bedroom only served to emphasize this.

  Perhaps Shannon had run a bath to help her relax? The chair she sat on, painted white and made of light wood, looked as though it belonged in the bathroom. Shannon’s clothes were in a pile close by on the floor. The bath water, Rhona suspected, had had lavender oil added to it, a bottle of which stood nearby.

  All of which suggested Shannon was trying to calm herself.

  There had been no evidence of alcohol being consumed and no evidence of drugs on the premises. They would have to wait for toxicology tests to discover if Shannon had ingested any drugs prior to her death, legal or otherwise.

  Had Shannon been intent on killing herself, the easiest way, as Roy suggested, was to ease the passing with drink and drugs and simply allow herself to sink under the water. In this case Shannon was sitting on the chair, which had been turned to face the bath and her head submerged. Either by accident or by force. Shannon wasn’t tied to the chair, although she might have been at the time. Rhona checked the wrists first.

  The hands were small and slim, the fingers free of jewellery. On initial inspection, there was no obvious bruising on the narrow wrists. Rhona examined the chair for evidence of anything having been tied to the legs or main body and found nothing. Using the magnifying glass, she took a closer look.

  The fingernails were bleached white from the water, but there was something caught beneath them. Rhona extracted a fibre and bagged it, then swept below the nails on both hands.