The Special Dead

by Lin Anderson

  ‘Detective Sergeant McNab,’ he offered.

  There was a short silence, as though the caller thought they’d dialled a wrong number.

  ‘Hello,’ he tried again.

  ‘Sorry, this is Freya Devine from the university library.’

  ‘Hello, Freya. What can I do for you?’ McNab tried not to sound too jubilant about the call.

  A hesitation. ‘I was just wondering if you’d managed to contact Shannon Jones yet.’

  Now it was McNab who was hesitating. This was a tricky one.

  ‘Why?’ he ventured.

  ‘Grant still hasn’t managed to reach her on the phone. I said I could go round and check if she’s okay.’

  ‘No, don’t do that,’ McNab said quickly.

  ‘Why?’ Her voice had risen in fear.

  McNab made his voice calm. ‘I need to speak to you first.’

  ‘Is something wrong?’ she said quietly.

  McNab ignored the question and asked one of his own. ‘Where are you exactly?’

  ‘Outside the library.’

  ‘Walk down to Ashton Lane. I’ll meet you there.’ McNab rang off before she could question him further.

  He knew he was taking a risk. Freya Devine might well decide to go round to Shannon’s place anyway and spot the police activity. They wouldn’t tell her anything and nor should he, but the fear in her voice had decided him. Freya had said she didn’t know Shannon very well, but McNab wasn’t so sure that was true.

  This way he might find out.

  She was standing outside the jazz club, waiting for him.

  ‘What’s wrong with Shannon?’ she demanded as soon as McNab drew near.

  McNab led her to an outside table and motioned her to sit down. She looked as though she might argue, then didn’t.

  ‘Do you want something to drink?’ he said.

  She shook her head.

  The waitress appeared and McNab ordered two espressos.

  When they were alone again, he said, ‘I went to Shannon’s flat directly after I left the library. She didn’t answer the door, so I forced an entry. I’m sorry to have to tell you that Shannon is dead.’

  The shock of what McNab was saying hit her and she swayed a little in the seat. McNab grabbed her arm to steady her.

  ‘I’m sorry. There was no easy way to tell you that.’

  She looked at him in horror. ‘How?’

  He shook his head, indicating he couldn’t say.

  ‘Did somebody kill her?’ she demanded.

  McNab didn’t answer.

  ‘My God, somebody killed her,’ she said, shaking her head in disbelief.

  McNab intervened. ‘We won’t know exactly how she died until the post-mortem.’

  She examined his expression, those intelligent eyes missing nothing.

  ‘Leila, now Shannon. Who’s doing this?’

  ‘Why do you think the deaths are connected?’ McNab said swiftly.

  ‘Don’t you?’ she challenged him.

  ‘Why would they be connected?’ he tried again.

  He watched as she collected herself, then carefully chose her words.

  ‘It’s all over the news about the man Leila picked up in the bar. Shannon could identify him. Isn’t that reason enough?’

  It was a possibility, although McNab wasn’t sure he bought it. Shannon wasn’t the only person who could identify the chief suspect. He changed tack a little.

  ‘It’s important that you don’t discuss what I’ve told you with anyone until it’s official.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘In the next twenty-four hours.’

  At that moment the coffees arrived. McNab immediately drank his down, then eyed hers.

  ‘Have it,’ she offered. ‘I don’t like espresso.’

  ‘Can I buy you a drink instead then?’ he said, certain of a rebuff.

  She surprised him by considering his offer, then asking if he’d eaten yet.

  ‘No. If you’re hungry we could order something here?’ he suggested cautiously.

  She glanced about at what was now a busy after-work crowd. ‘I’d rather go somewhere quieter.’

  ‘I know just the place,’ McNab said.

  Twenty minutes later, they were settled in a quiet corner of a small Italian restaurant he occasionally frequented on Byres Road, their order taken and a bottle of very nice red Italian wine uncorked on the table in front of them.

  McNab poured her a glass.

  ‘Aren’t you having some?’ Freya said.

  ‘Tell me if you like it first,’ he said, stalling for time.

  She sipped a little and pronounced it very good. McNab, familiar with the vintage, knew it would be. He was just questioning whether he could stop at wine.

  Well, it was time to find out.

  He poured himself a small amount, then filled their water glasses, internally reminding himself one glass of wine, one glass of water.

  ‘Grant said you were a post-grad student in medieval history,’ McNab began on what he thought was safe ground.

  It wasn’t.

  ‘You asked Grant about me?’ she said, perturbed.

  ‘A police habit,’ he quickly apologized. ‘So why medieval history and why Glasgow?’

  ‘You noticed I don’t come from here,’ she said with a small smile.

  ‘Newcastle?’ he guessed.

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Honorary Scot,’ he assured her.

  ‘Everyone says that.’ She relaxed a little and took a sip of wine. ‘I chose Glasgow because it’s home to the Centre for Scottish and Celtic Studies and I have access to the Baillie collection, which is a prize collection of printed medieval and modern sources in Scottish, Irish and English history.’

  ‘That all sounds good,’ McNab said, as though he understood the significance of Glasgow University’s medieval attributes.

  She seemed amused by his expression. ‘I chose medieval research because it’s like being a detective, although all the cases are cold. Very cold.’

  McNab smiled back. ‘Now, I understand.’

  As the food arrived, McNab allowed himself a mouthful of wine instead of water. After weeks of abstinence, it tasted pretty bloody good. He admonished himself silently and weakened its impact with more water.

  They lapsed into silence as they each tackled their plates of spaghetti. McNab felt strangely at ease in Freya’s presence, something he wasn’t used to experiencing with attractive and desirable women. Wearing a plain blue dress, sporting no make-up or jewellery – he’d noted the lack of a ring in particular – she was, he decided, quite lovely.

  And out of my league.

  The spaghetti eaten, he offered to refill her glass.

  ‘If you have more, too,’ she said. ‘Or maybe you’re still on duty?’

  ‘No,’ he said and poured some for himself.

  McNab was feeling better after the food and the wine, and her company, but he still had a job to do.

  ‘May I ask you a question?’ he said.

  She studied him intently. ‘If it will help find the person who did this to Shannon and Leila.’

  ‘It will,’ he said. ‘Are you a practising Witch?’

  The glass, halfway to her mouth, halted abruptly. ‘What?’ she said in mock amazement.

  ‘Do you practise Wicca?’

  ‘Why do you ask me that?’

  ‘Do you?’ he insisted.

  She contemplated lying, but by her expression, lying wasn’t something she was comfortable doing.

  Finally she said, ‘Yes,’ and met his eye. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because both Leila and Shannon also practised Wicca, as I expect you already know.’

  She shifted a little in her seat and he waited as she considered another lie. ‘I was aware of that, yes.’

  ‘And you didn’t think it important to tell me?’

  ‘No. If they were practising Catholics or Buddhists or agnostic, I wouldn’t have mentioned that either,’ she said defensiv
ely. ‘Has the fact they practised Wicca something to do with their deaths?’

  ‘There was a room of naked Barbie-type dolls in Leila’s flat. Twenty-seven of them hanging from the ceiling.’

  Her face, already porcelain in colour, became transparent. McNab watched the blood beat rapidly at her temple, dark blue against the white. He’d surprised and frightened her and he felt sorry for that, but he couldn’t give up now.

  He told her what had not, as yet, been reported in the media, although it was bound to come out soon.

  ‘Leila was found hanged in that room, just like the dolls, with a red plaited silk cingulum round her neck.’

  Her hand flew to her mouth and McNab wondered for a moment whether she might throw up. So did the waiter, who was glancing over at them anxiously.

  She stood up.

  Realizing she was planning on leaving, McNab said, ‘I’m sorry. Please sit down and I’ll explain.’

  She was fighting herself. McNab also suspected that the possible link between the deaths and Wicca had just hit home, and that connection had spooked her.

  ‘If you think there may be a link between their beliefs and their deaths, I have to know, if I’m going to find who killed them,’ he emphasized quietly.

  Her frightened eyes met his and she sank into the seat again. McNab gave her a few moments to compose herself.

  ‘I won’t spring anything else on you,’ he promised.

  The waiter, sensing the furore had come to an end, approached and offered them dessert. Freya declined, as did McNab, but he did order an espresso.

  ‘Talk to me,’ he said when some of the colour had reappeared in her cheeks.

  She gathered herself before she spoke. ‘My research involves the practice of Wicca and the occult in medieval times. The university has a substantial collection on the occult called the Ferguson collection. Shannon looked after it. That’s how I knew about her involvement with Wicca, although we never discussed it in detail. Leila was more obvious. One staff night out in Ashton Lane, she revealed that she believed in sexual magick.’ She glanced at McNab to check if he knew what that was. When he shook his head, she said, ‘Spells cast during sexual intercourse are believed to be more potent, because of the energy released during climax. Leila was adamant that this was true.’

  ‘Which is why she made a habit of picking up men for sex?’ McNab said.

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘And the significance of the dolls?’

  ‘That I don’t know, although the Goddess is an important deity in Wicca.’

  McNab tipped the rest of the wine into their glasses and drank his down, before hitting the coffee.

  ‘I’d like to go home now,’ she said.

  ‘Of course.’ He waved at the waiter for the bill. ‘I’m sorry I frightened you.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ she said sharply.

  McNab decided there was no point in arguing. He had done his job and by doing it had blown his chances.

  Outside, they stood awkwardly for a minute, before McNab said, ‘Please call me at any time, if you want to talk about this, or if anything frightens you about it.’

  She nodded in an unconvincing manner, then turned and walked away.

  With a stab of regret, McNab registered that Freya Devine was unlikely ever to seek him out again.

  He retraced his steps to Ashton Lane, entered the first pub he came to, ordered a double whisky and carried it outside.

  17

  Laid out in three rows of nine, matched by hair colour, they were in the same formation as when she’d first seen them hanging from the ceiling in the murder room.

  Except the last one was missing, because Chrissy held it in her left hand and in her right hand was a scalpel.

  ‘Okay?’ She looked to Rhona.

  Rhona nodded.

  Chrissy inserted the tip of the blade between the breasts, then cut a clean line between there and the navel, making an L-shape at top and bottom, a classic incision used in many post-mortems. Laying down the scalpel, Chrissy used forceps to pull back the plastic and reveal the inside.

  ‘There it is,’ she said, her eyes glinting in excitement.

  Chrissy had spent the afternoon examining the dolls. Dusting for prints, and combing the hair for trace evidence. During the procedure she’d spotted that some of the dolls had an incision between their legs, and suspected this had been done to insert something into the body.

  Now she was proved right.

  Picking up a pair of tweezers, Chrissy carefully extracted what appeared to be a rolled-up piece of paper from the body of the doll.

  The triumphant grin behind the mask was obvious.

  With gloved hands, Chrissy carefully unrolled the paper and laid it flat on the table to reveal an outline sketch of what appeared to be a male figure, including the genitals with the penis dominant and erect. Below the drawing was a set of symbols.

  ‘Well, we know what the drawing represents, but what’s that below?’ Chrissy said.

  Rhona reached for a magnifying glass and took a closer look. ‘They look like runes of some sort.’ She handed the glass to Chrissy. ‘How many dolls have been cut in this way?’

  ‘Nine, including this one.’

  ‘Okay,’ Rhona said, ‘we’ll each take four and check if there’s anything inside.’

  Twenty minutes later the other eight dolls had had their own post-mortems and their contents removed. All had contained a similar drawing of a man in a state of arousal, but the body shape and height of each male was different. Some had distinguishing marks on them, such as a symbol that might be there to represent a scar. The size of the genitals differed too. All of them had a different set of runes below.

  ‘Are these replicas of the men she had sex with?’ Chrissy said.

  Rhona was thinking that too. ‘It looks like it.’

  ‘Maybe the sex was rubbish so she cast a spell on them,’ Chrissy suggested with a laugh.

  ‘Or maybe she had sex with them in order to cast a spell,’ Rhona suggested, remembering what Magnus had said about sex magick. Rhona glanced at her watch. ‘You head off. It’s been a long day.’

  ‘My mum’s got wee Michael for the night. Fancy a drink?’

  ‘What about Sam?’

  ‘He’s playing tonight, so I’m headed to the club.’

  Rhona contemplated what visiting the jazz club might mean in terms of facing Sean and decided to delay her decision.

  ‘I want to photograph the drawings and email them to Magnus first. Can I catch you up?’

  Chrissy threw her a suspicious look. ‘How long will you be exactly?’

  ‘Half an hour,’ Rhona promised.

  Once Chrissy had gone, Rhona set about photographing the nine sketches and transferring the images to her laptop. They had made some progress since the morning strategy meeting. While Chrissy had concentrated on the dolls, Rhona had examined the cingulum in more detail. Unplaited and spread out on a lab table, shaking the silk had resulted in two hairs from the strands. A light brushing had brought forth flakes of skin. If, as it appeared, the cingulum had been used in a number of sexual encounters, then other partners may have left trace evidence of themselves behind, depending how often it had been washed.

  The attempt at making the drawings particular to different shapes and sizes of men did seem to indicate they were replicas of real people. Would Leila’s final partner feature among them?

  She prepared an email for Bill, copy to Magnus, describing what Chrissy had found, then attached the images. Just before she sent it, she considered adding McNab’s name to the recipients, then decided she would leave that up to Bill.

  The more distance she kept between herself and McNab, the better.

  As she logged her results and tidied up, Rhona contemplated heading for home. Chrissy would no doubt call when she didn’t appear at the jazz club, but she would have her excuse ready. The post-mortem on Shannon Jones was scheduled for tomorrow morning, and it had been a long day. Whatever the
excuse, Chrissy was smart enough to know the real reason for Rhona’s non-appearance.

  Not for the first time did Rhona regret inviting Sean back into her bed. Not because she hadn’t enjoyed the experience, but because she’d enjoyed it too much. It would be easy to slide back into that relationship, but only if she forgot how it had played out the last time. Still, she should be able to go for a drink with Chrissy without agonizing over it. With that thought in mind, she turned her steps towards the jazz club.

  The night was fine with a clear late-summer sky. The inhabitants of the West End were out in force, taking advantage of the pleasant weather. The outside tables in Ashton Lane were packed, the doors and windows of the various eateries and pubs standing wide open.

  As Rhona made her way through the throng she spotted a figure she recognized. He sat alone, apparently deep in thought. In front of him was a glass of amber liquid that she suspected was whisky. Rhona watched as he raised the glass to his lips, then lowered it again untasted.

  As she tried to make up her mind what to do, if anything, McNab glanced up and spotted her. Their eyes met for a moment, before he nodded briefly and turned away. There was something in his manner that troubled Rhona enough to make her approach.

  McNab acknowledged her arrival with an enquiring look.

  ‘Dr MacLeod. What can I do for you?’

  ‘You can buy me a drink,’ Rhona said. ‘A white wine, please.’

  A ghost of a smile passed his lips. ‘My pleasure.’

  When he’d disappeared inside, Rhona checked out what was in his glass and found it was whisky, although she suspected he’d drunk none of it, yet.

  McNab appeared minutes later with a bowl of peanuts and a glass of white wine.

  ‘I thought you might not have eaten yet.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ Rhona said gratefully.

  He watched as she sampled both the wine and the nuts, but made no attempt to take a drink himself. Rhona wondered how long he had been sitting there and whether this was his first drink. She realized she had little idea how to deal with this version of McNab. Their relationship before Stonewarrior had consisted of flashes of insight, barbed comments and occasional sexual congress. This silent, non-confrontational McNab bothered her. When he made no attempt to engage her in conversation, Rhona decided to open the proceedings.