by Lin Anderson
‘When Chrissy examined the dolls, we found nine of them had small sketches hidden inside.’
That caught his attention. ‘Sketches of what?’
Rhona described the drawings. ‘I sent image files to Bill and Magnus.’
‘And me?’
She hesitated. ‘I thought Bill would pass them on.’
That didn’t please him and she saw a flash of the old McNab in the look he gave her.
‘Fuck you, Dr MacLeod,’ he said quietly.
She didn’t react, because she probably deserved his anger. ‘I sent them to Magnus because I thought he might be able to interpret the runes.’ Which was true, but sounded like an excuse.
‘And I wouldn’t?’ McNab gave a little snort of derision.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘So am I.’ McNab lifted the glass and drained it dry.
Rhona watched him walk away, hoping it wasn’t her lack of faith in him that had broken his resolve.
McNab had done exactly what he’d vowed not to do, and it had felt good, which was why he’d left immediately after. Had he hung around he would have had another, and another. Rhona had done him a favour dissing him like that, although his anger at her failure to include him in the latest discovery had been real enough.
Christ, she could really get under his skin.
Emerging on Byres Road again, he stopped to make a call.
Magnus answered on the third ring.
‘McNab here. Are you at home?’
‘Yes,’ Magnus said, sounding guarded.
‘I’d like to come over, if that’s okay? I need to talk to you about Witchcraft.’
18
The feeling of nausea that had hit in the restaurant swept over her again. Freya stopped for a moment and, leaning against a nearby garden wall, fought to quell the fear that was causing it. Focusing on the stone, still warm from the day’s sunshine, she watched as a spider extended its web from an overhanging clematis, instantly trapping one of the tiny insects that occupied the evening air.
She grabbed the plant, tearing the cobweb, its sticky tendrils now clinging to her hand instead of the foliage, but the fly was already dead.
Just like Shannon.
Breathing deeply, she contemplated turning back. Seeking out the detective again. Revealing her innermost thoughts.
But did they make any sense?
Or was she just in shock at the death of a friend? Even though neither Shannon nor Leila were really friends. They had just shared an interest in Wicca.
And he thinks that’s why they were killed.
Collecting herself, she walked on, heading back towards the university. The library would still be open, but that wasn’t where she was going. On the crown of the hill, she turned right, entering the main gates.
The last time she and Shannon had spoken, Shannon had mentioned she had access to the room that had originally housed the famous Ferguson collection. Shannon seemed excited by this, but hadn’t said exactly why.
One of the reasons Freya had chosen Glasgow for her PhD had been the Ferguson collection, something she’d mentioned to the policeman. John Ferguson, former Regis Professor of Chemistry at the university, had amassed 7,500 volumes, including 670 books on the history of Witchcraft, the subject of her own thesis. Now housed in the main library, its original home had been in the main Gothic building.
Once inside the deserted quadrangle, Freya made for the staircase to the tower and climbed to the second level. She’d been up here only once before, as a pilgrimage more than anything. Her initial interest in both this area of study and the collection had been sparked by a lecture she’d attended by Emeritus Professor of Astronomy Archie Roy.
He hadn’t visited Newcastle University to talk about celestial bodies, but to discuss his other interest – psychical research. Both funny and entertaining, he’d told the sceptical audience of science students how, as a young lecturer in physics at Glasgow, he’d inadvertently visited this part of the old building only to discover a library he never knew existed. Curious, he’d entered and found numerous tomes on the occult, and realized he recognized some of the authors as eminent scientists. He reasoned that if these men wrote books on the subject, then it must be worth investigating. Freya had immediately felt the same way.
She stood for a moment on the landing, getting her bearings, then made for the double doors midway along. There was no sign on the wall or the doors to tell her she was in the right place, but memory told her she was.
The outer room was being refurbished, which was why Shannon had been called to check it out before workmen stripped out the original bookcases. Piles of old shelves sat in the centre of the room and dust danced in the late sunlight that streamed through the Gothic-shaped windows.
The door in the back wall was the one she sought. Crossing to it, Freya tried the handle, establishing it was locked. She felt in her pocket for the set of keys she’d taken earlier from Shannon’s desk, and slipped the larger of the two into the lock.
With a satisfying clunk it turned. Freya pushed open the door and stepped inside.
19
Rhona took a breath, then let her body sink. Relaxing her muscles sent her arms floating of their own accord, her breasts swaying gently with the water. She thought of her pregnancy, almost two decades before. How she’d loved lying in a warm bath, the mound that was her unborn son a small island in the water. Almost twenty years ago.
I was a child, who bore a child and gave it away, to be raised by strangers.
As her brain repeated the mantra she periodically rebuked herself with, her muscles began tensing again. Rhona breathed in and this time dipped her head below the water. Despite her efforts, small bubbles of air immediately escaped through her mouth and nose.
How long before I breathe in water? Not long and even less if I panic.
She was counting now. Counting down the seconds before she would have to give up and rise to the surface. The water enveloped her and she had the sensation of being pulled deeper, reminding her of an incident when she was a child. Paddling at the edge of a loch, her feet had gone from under her and she’d dropped like a stone into the freezing water. The shock had made her gasp and she’d breathed in water. It might have been over in seconds had her father not pulled her out unceremoniously by the hair.
‘Rhona?’ The voice floated towards her from what seemed like an immense distance.
She opened her eyes just as a hand reached in and yanked her to the surface.
‘Christ, Rhona, what the hell are you doing?’
She finally opened her mouth and sucked in air, with all the desperation of a smoker taking a nicotine hit.
Sean’s expression was so furious, Rhona almost laughed.
‘A scientific experiment,’ she said.
‘Like fuck it was.’
He hauled her upright.
‘Here.’ He thrust a towel at her. ‘You’re freezing. How long have you been in there?’
Rhona ignored the proffered towel, stepped out of the bath and took her robe from behind the door. ‘A while. I was thinking about drowning.’
‘What?’
‘About the science of drowning. Anyway, how did you get in?’
‘I still have keys, remember?’ He flourished them at her.
Rhona tied her robe, suddenly conscious of her nakedness beneath, and headed for the kitchen, Sean following.
‘Chrissy said you were coming to the jazz club.’
‘I decided on a bath and an early night.’
‘So you weren’t avoiding me?’
‘No,’ she lied.
He didn’t look convinced. ‘Have you eaten?’
‘Not yet.’
He opened the fridge door and took a look inside. ‘I could make us an omelette?’
‘I’m having a takeaway.’
‘What did you order? Chinese or pizza?’
By the sceptical look on his face, it was time for the truth.
‘I haven’t
ordered, yet.’
Sean extracted the eggs and some Edam cheese she’d bought days ago and started breaking the eggs into a bowl.
‘I brought chilled white wine. A nice Italian. Two bottles.’
‘I’ll get dressed,’ Rhona said.
‘Don’t bother. Relax. Pour the wine.’ He gestured to a bag. ‘There’s olives and bread.’
She poured them both a glass, put the olives in a bowl and cut up the bread. Already the barriers were breaking down. This is what they did well. Eating, drinking and talking, although the talking usually led to sex.
‘How’s McNab doing?’ Sean said as he whisked the eggs.
‘Okay,’ Rhona conceded.
‘He’s a one-off. Like you. A free spirit. That’s why he’s good at what he does.’
Rhona struggled to respond to that. ‘He was demoted,’ she reminded Sean.
‘Who the fuck cares? McNab will never fit the mould, but he understands how people tick. Good or bad.’
It was a fair assessment. ‘I thought you didn’t like him?’ she said.
‘You don’t know men, although you think you do.’ Sean flipped an omelette onto a plate and handed it to her. ‘I like him.’
They ate together in silence. It always amazed Rhona that Sean could conjure a meal from nothing and make it taste good. It was a skill she didn’t possess. She also killed plants despite strenuous attempts to keep them alive. Why was that? Did she possess a life force that destroyed? Both plants and food, and men?
Sean, on the other hand, was a creator. Of both music and food. She merely grazed on the fallout of life. The good and the bad. But mostly the bad. Analysing and reporting it. Not a pretty thought.
Christ, she even studied drowning while in the bath.
‘Music?’ he suggested when she’d cleared her plate.
‘How’s the new singer?’ she countered, suddenly remembering the woman in his office who had looked less than impressed by her arrival.
‘Good, although she’s only here for a month,’ Sean said as he stacked the dishes in the dishwasher.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Her boyfriend’s a musician. When he tours, she goes with him.’
Sean’s mention of touring made her think of Leila’s brother.
‘Have you heard of a band called the Spikes?’
Sean looked surprised at the question. ‘Yes, why?’
‘The police are trying to get in touch with a band member, Daniel Hardy. He’s the dead girl’s brother. They think he’s touring in Germany.’
Sean shook his head. ‘No. He’s in Glasgow. I saw him a couple of days ago.’
‘Are you sure?’ Rhona said, surprised.
‘Pretty sure.’
‘If he’s here, he must know about his sister. It’s been all over the news. Why didn’t he contact the police?’
Sean looked thoughtful. ‘Maybe he has and McNab hasn’t mentioned it yet.’
It was possible, but unlikely. ‘I think I should tell him.’ Rhona rose and went in search of her mobile. Contacting McNab was an ideal way of terminating the cosy wine-drinking session in the sitting room before it progressed to other things. McNab’s phone rang out a couple of times then went to voicemail. Rhona left a message relating Sean’s sighting of Daniel Hardy, then rang off.
As she made her way back to the sitting room, she met Sean in the hall.
‘I’m heading back to the club, if that’s okay?’
She covered her surprise. ‘Of course. Thanks for the meal.’
‘My pleasure.’
In that moment, Rhona wished he wasn’t going. This was always the way of it. If she felt Sean was manipulating her, she rejected him. If he appeared to reject her, she wanted him.
Sean dropped his set of keys on the hall table.
‘You don’t have to . . .’ she began.
‘Yes, I do.’ He smiled. ‘Call me.’
Rhona stood at the open door, listening to Sean’s footsteps descend the stairs. Well, she’d got what she wanted. So why didn’t it feel good?
20
On his arrival, Magnus had welcomed him in with no sign of animosity. That in itself had irritated McNab because Magnus’s magnanimity had always been a sore point. Then, of course, Magnus had offered him a whisky, a rather good Highland Park. The taste of the earlier whisky still in his mouth, McNab had had to strive hard to turn down the offer. He was aware that his curt refusal had appeared to be more like bad grace than abstinence, but again Magnus had seemed unperturbed as he set up the coffee machine to produce McNab’s requested caffeine hit.
They were now seated at the table by the open French windows, with a view of the flowing river below and the compelling Glasgow skyline above. Magnus was nursing a whisky, McNab a mug of strong coffee. Before them the big book on Witchcraft lay open, wherein McNab had read the selected passages with a mixture of interest and outright disbelief. Now they were looking through the photographs on the laptop screen. The ones Rhona had sent Magnus and omitted to send to McNab.
From the moment he had set eyes on them, McNab had loathed those dolls.
A psycho who hangs a woman from a hook, probably for sexual pleasure, was something he understood and could deal with. He didn’t want the dolls to play a role in the story of her death. But it seemed they might.
He marshalled himself to ask the necessary question. ‘Why would the victim place drawings inside the dolls?’
‘I don’t know for certain,’ Magnus said. ‘I’m assuming it was something to do with casting a spell.’
McNab didn’t like the word ‘spell’ either, but he couldn’t ignore it.
‘A spell to do what?’
Magnus shrugged. ‘Again, I have no idea.’
Fuck this, McNab thought, but didn’t say out loud. Instead, he tried a different angle. ‘What are spells used for in general?’
‘Anything you desire. The Wicca code suggests you can do what you like, provided it harms no one.’
God, he would like a whisky, and that would harm no one, except of course himself. McNab held out his mug. ‘More coffee?’
As Magnus went to get a refill, McNab eyed the whisky bottle.
If he added some to his coffee, did that count as drinking?
When the mug reappeared, McNab drew his eyes from the whisky and focused on the drawings on the screen.
‘Okay. We know whether these guys were short or tall, well hung or not. What we need are names.’
Magnus surprised him by saying, ‘I think we may have them, or at least a first name.’ He indicated the symbols below the first drawing. ‘These look like runes from the Seax-Wica alphabet, which is popular in occult writing.’ He flipped through the Witchcraft book. ‘Here are the runes and their alphabet equivalent.’
‘If we exchange each rune below the first drawing with its alphabet equivalent, this is what we get.’ He passed McNab a sheet of printed paper with the symbols above and the letters he recognized below.
‘Are these their real names?’ McNab said.
‘There’s no way of knowing. True Wiccan names are chosen personally by each member of the circle. They usually relate to plants, the elements, like wind, rain or fire, animals such as raven or wolf, Gods or Goddesses like Freya, or special gifts that someone might have. This list doesn’t contain any names like that.’
‘They could also have fed her a false name,’ McNab said.
‘True, but I think Leila Hardy was intelligent enough to discover their real names if that was the case.’
McNab studied the list.
One name jumped out at him and that was Barry. Could it be the barman, Barry Fraser? If so he had a scar which, by its position, might be the result of an appendectomy. According to the sketch, the barman also had a package big enough to incite male envy.
If Barry Fraser was the one named, what were the chances that the last man seen with Leila before she died was also there? McNab studied the drawings again. There were three tall figures which could m
atch the suggested build of their suspect, but there was no indication as to their age or hair colour, so not enough to pinpoint the tall blond man that Leila had left the pub with.
McNab cautiously reviewed his earlier anger. Rhona had been right to send the drawings to Magnus. He allowed himself a brief grudging acceptance of the man observing him from across the table.
‘Thanks, this has been helpful and informative,’ McNab managed.
Magnus appeared momentarily discomfited by the unexpected approbation, then added, ‘There’s one thing more I should mention, although I’m not sure if it’s significant.’
‘What’s that?’
Magnus drew the book forward and indicated the passage that followed the table of runes. ‘To know a person’s name is to have a hold over them. For to know the name is to be able to conjure with it,’ he quoted.
A shiver ran up McNab’s spine, something that didn’t happen often and which he didn’t like.
‘You think that’s why the drawings are named? Leila conjured up something with these men?’
‘Or against them,’ Magnus said.
‘You’re suggesting she made sexual magick with them in order to curse them?’
McNab had been cursed by a variety of women, most, if not all of them – including Rhona – with justification. But there was a difference between being cursed at and being cursed. Even he could appreciate that.
‘A revenge killing?’ he offered.
‘It’s a possibility.’
There were too many possibilities and now too many possible suspects.
Identifying the nine men of the apocalypse would be difficult, if not impossible, especially with the death of Shannon Jones. McNab’s thoughts moved to Freya. Might she recognize any of the descriptions contained in the dolls? Or maybe their best bet was the brother, the elusive Daniel Hardy.
‘I should get going,’ McNab said. ‘Thanks for your help.’
‘I’ll write a report on the drawings and send you and DI Wilson a copy.’
‘And Rhona.’
‘And Rhona.’ Magnus seemed pleased at being reminded.
