by Lin Anderson
‘What?’ Mark said stupidly.
‘She didn’t want me to tell you, but I felt you should know.’
When rehearsing his confession, Mark had consistently heard his mother’s voice, telling him he was right to go to the police and she was proud of him for doing so. It had been his ‘get out’ clause. His safety net. Whatever he did, his mother would still love him.
‘I haven’t been to see her,’ Mark said, suddenly aware of how long it had been since his last visit.
‘But you’ve spoken on the phone,’ his father reminded him.
Mark realized his father was simply repeating his mother’s words, and her excuses for his infrequent visits.
‘I’ll come home with you now.’
‘No,’ his father said swiftly. ‘The nurse is with her and she’ll be asleep, anyway.’
A tidal wave of emotion threatened to drown Mark. ‘When, then?’
‘I’ll have to break it to her that I’ve told you. Then I’ll call and let you know when to come.’ His father lifted his glass and swallowed the whisky down. In that moment he looked vulnerable and bereft. Something Mark couldn’t bear to behold.
‘Why didn’t she want me told?’ Mark said.
His father contemplated him for a moment.
‘Your mother has been courted by death for most of your life. She didn’t want you to be courted by it too.’
The job done, his father rose. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have another matter I must deal with before I go home.’
Mark followed his father’s glance. A man had just entered the room. With a jolt Mark realized he recognized the man’s face, but from where? Not sure his legs would support him, Mark stayed seated as his father approached the man, greeted him, then ushered him into a side room.
Mark lifted his drink with a shaking hand as the memory of where he’d seen the man came flooding back. It had been on television at a press conference about the Glasgow Witch murders. The man meeting with his father was the detective in charge of the investigation.
33
The rest of the Tech team had gone home, the main lights had dimmed, yet the machinery still hummed and blinked, giving the impression of a spacecraft automatically piloting itself through the outer darkness.
McNab didn’t like this room, and felt inadequate when in it. What value had instinct, intuition and years of experience when faced with the vastness of the digital mind, the ability to process at a rate approaching the speed of light, cross-referencing and calculating?
Ollie, on the other hand, resembled a child with a toy, playing a complicated game. No fear. No trepidation. No lack of confidence in his abilities to master the digital world. That made Ollie a proper scientist.
What does that make me?
McNab suddenly recalled the term ‘urban warrior’ had been used by his superiors and definitely not in a complimentary way.
‘Shannon received a single short phone call that evening, from this number,’ Ollie said, bringing McNab back to the task in hand.
‘Who was it?’ McNab demanded.
A name appeared on the screen.
Jesus fuck. No wonder the bastard had looked so frightened when he’d been told about Shannon’s death. Or maybe he’d known already? Maybe he’d been the one to kill her?
‘Barry Fraser,’ he said softly.
‘You know him?’ Ollie said.
‘I know him, all right.’
Ollie moved on to the list of contacts and the more recent texts he’d retrieved. The university library number was among them, as too was Freya’s mobile number. Seeing Freya’s name on the list gave McNab a jolt.
‘How many calls or texts from, or to, that number?’ He pointed to Freya’s name.
Ollie did a quick check. ‘Eleven in total. There’s a call from it the day you found the body, which wasn’t answered.’
McNab experienced a sense of relief that Freya’s version of events and the level of her friendship with Shannon appeared to be true, at the same time admonishing himself for ever doubting her.
Daniel Hardy was also on the list, as often as Barry. When McNab had first interviewed the barman, Barry had been quick to deny he’d even noticed Shannon in the pub, only admitting to knowing Leila. For someone he didn’t know he was on the phone to her a lot, including speaking to her the night she’d died.
It was time to talk to Barry Fraser again.
The earlier rain clouds had disappeared, leaving a clear sky and a rosy sunset. McNab toyed with the idea of saving Barry for the morning and calling Freya instead. The police had revealed to the press that Shannon’s mobile was missing, but hadn’t updated them with the news that it had now been found. So assuming Barry was following the investigation, he wouldn’t be currently concerned about his call being discovered. Barry Fraser, McNab decided, wasn’t going anywhere.
He contemplated going by The Pot Still just to check on the guy, but if he was seen it might alert Barry to what was to follow. No, McNab decided. Let the bastard do his shift and go home. They would bring him in tomorrow, and he would take great delight in tearing Barry’s story to shreds.
McNab pulled out his mobile and called Freya’s number.
This time he let it ring longer than just three times, but still she didn’t answer. McNab was a little taken aback by the degree of his disappointment. He checked his watch, only now taking note of the time. He should have called earlier, before he met up with Ollie.
Maybe she’d given up on him and was out somewhere she couldn’t hear her mobile? Alternatively, she’d spotted the name of the caller and decided not to answer. A thought that didn’t go down well.
Eventually Freya’s voice asked him to leave a message. McNab said, ‘Hi, moon lady. Sorry it’s so late. Call me, please.’
What to do now? In past times, he might have headed for the jazz club. Had a drink there and talked to colleagues. Maybe he would catch up with Sam, if Chrissy wasn’t about. It was a tempting thought, but a dangerous one.
He would go home. Pick up a pizza on the way and watch some TV. He hadn’t replaced the half-bottle of whisky he and Freya had shared. Hadn’t even thought of doing so, until now.
A hole had opened up in his evening. A place he’d assumed would be filled by Freya, but now a bottle of whisky was vying for second place. In that moment his self-belief went, his conviction and determination with it. He knew he would buy a bottle of whisky on his way home. The off-licence was next to the takeaway. It was too easy.
McNab tried to persuade himself that that particular scenario wouldn’t necessarily happen. That he’d made a commitment and would stick to it. Then he thought of Freya and his resolve evaporated. He tried to raise it again by checking his phone. But there was no answering message. No request that he come by.
I cannot depend on this woman to stop me from drinking.
But if not her, then who?
The answer came in the form of a phone call. McNab almost missed it, so intent was he in his approach to the pizza place and, of course, the off-licence. He didn’t even glance at the screen, so hopeful was he that it was Freya calling back.
The voice that answered wasn’t Freya, but it was the voice of a lost love.
‘Dr MacLeod,’ he said.
‘Why don’t you call me Rhona?’
‘Because you told me we could never be friends again,’ he said, knowing he sounded pathetic.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ he lied.
‘Have you been drinking?’
‘Not a drop,’ McNab said with honesty.
‘Come over,’ she said. ‘Please.’
McNab had waited a long time to hear those words spoken by this woman.
‘Why?’
There was a moment’s silence. ‘Because I’m asking you to.’
Her voice sounded worried and sad and evasive all at the same time. McNab knew he would agree because he’d never been able to say no to Rhona MacLeod, except that one night, in the stone circle.<
br />
‘I’m on my way.’
Their history was as complex as the numerous investigations they’d worked on together. When he was being honest with himself, McNab knew exactly what Rhona thought of him. The term ‘infuriating’ came immediately to mind. She’d called him many things in the time they’d known one another; most of the terms used or implied had been less than complimentary. He also knew that she cared about him. Deeply and loyally. McNab would trust Rhona MacLeod with his life, as she could trust hers to him.
When he arrived, the flat was a blaze of light, every window facing the street lit up. When he buzzed, Rhona didn’t free the door until she’d heard his voice. As McNab climbed the stairs, the thought occurred that something had spooked Rhona. This in itself spooked McNab, because one thing he knew about Rhona was, she didn’t frighten easily.
When she opened the door to him, he was surprised to find her dressed as though for a date. He gave her an appraising look, which was quickly quashed by an unspoken warning from her.
The words, ‘You didn’t have to get dressed up for me,’ died on McNab’s lips.
She led him into the kitchen. No subdued lighting here either, every corner free of shadow. The window which normally stood open to allow the cat access to the roof was firmly closed and, McNab suspected, locked.
‘What’s going on?’ he said.
She gestured to the table. On it lay a clear evidence bag with something inside. McNab picked the bag up and checked out its contents. The bundle of sticks it contained took shape and became a woman with long hair, wearing a red thread round her neck. There was no mistaking the image the figure conjured up.
‘Where did you get this?’ he said.
‘I found it in the hall when I got back from work—’
He interrupted. ‘Why didn’t you call me?’
‘I just did.’ She sounded exasperated.
‘Four hours later.’
‘I had a date. I decided to keep it.’
McNab wondered who with, but didn’t ask.
‘Can I look at it out of the bag?’
She brought him gloves and a pair of tweezers.
‘Who’s touched it?’ he said.
‘Only me, and maybe the cat.’
She handed him a magnifying glass. ‘There’s something scratched on the body.’
At first McNab didn’t see what she was talking about, so faint were the marks.
‘What are they?’
‘Runes,’ she said.
‘Fucking runes.’ McNab felt his exasperation mount.
Rhona pushed a piece of paper towards him. On it was the alphabet table he’d seen in Magnus’s book on Witchcraft. McNab expected her to translate for him. The fact that she didn’t, worried him.
‘What does it say?’ he demanded.
Rhona hesitated for a moment. ‘I think it says Freya.’
At the utterance of the name, McNab’s stomach dropped like a stone.
Rhona immediately added a proviso. ‘Freya is the name given to the Goddess in Wicca, so it’s not unusual to see it on replicas.’
McNab remembered the little statue the real Freya had left on her pillow. He’d carried it with him since that morning. He produced it now and showed it to Rhona.
She studied the little green figure, noting the name on the base.
‘Freya gave you this?’ she said.
McNab nodded. ‘That’s a true depiction of the Goddess and there isn’t a cingulum round her neck.’
‘Have you spoken to Freya recently?’ Rhona said.
McNab had his mobile out and already on fast dial. ‘I tried calling her earlier. She didn’t pick up.’ He felt his throat tighten as his call rang out unanswered. Eventually Freya’s voice came on asking him to leave a message.
‘I’m on my way round to your place,’ McNab said, trying to keep his voice even.
He pocketed his mobile.
‘I’m not convinced this has anything to do with your Freya,’ Rhona said. ‘I called you as a precaution.’
He understood that. ‘Thanks.’
‘If she’s stayed late at the library, her mobile may be switched off,’ Rhona offered.
‘I’ll check there too.’
Rhona went with him to the door.
‘You’ll let me know?’
‘Yes.’ McNab suddenly remembered. ‘We have Shannon’s mobile. Barry Fraser called her the night she died.’
As he descended the stairs, he heard Rhona shut and double-lock the door behind him.
Rhona turned as the sitting-room door opened and Sean emerged.
‘How did it go?’ he said, concerned.
‘He’s going round to check on Freya.’
‘You did the right thing.’
Rhona wasn’t sure she had. She’d interpreted the runes as reading ‘Freya’, but even with the magnifying glass it wasn’t clear that they did. She hadn’t announced the name at first because she’d wanted McNab to attempt his own translation, to reinforce her own reading of the runes. Tomorrow, under a proper microscope, she could be more certain. But she hadn’t wanted to wait until tomorrow.
‘The doll might not be a threat,’ Sean said.
‘What could it be, then?’ Rhona said sharply.
‘A plea to find Leila’s killer?’
Rhona halted the retort in her throat. Sean was right. She’d had pleas before, some by letter, some via email. When people realized she was forensically involved and the crime was personal to them, they sent her messages, either castigating her efforts or encouraging her to do more. The general population had great faith in the power and truth of forensics, mainly because of watching TV crime shows. It was both humbling and worrying.
‘Freya is an established name for the Goddess,’ Sean reminded her. ‘And McNab’s Freya wasn’t a friend of the dead women. Just an acquaintance, like all their other colleagues in the library.’
‘They weren’t Wiccan,’ Rhona said.
‘How do you know?’ Sean smiled. ‘If I suddenly revealed that I practised Wicca, what would you say?’
He had her there. ‘You are joking?’ she said.
‘I was brought up an Irish Catholic, worshipping a man who died a couple of thousand years ago. According to my teacher and the local priest, women were temptresses, destined to bring a man down. I find I’m rather drawn to the Wiccans, with their female Goddess.’
‘There’s a male God too,’ Rhona reminded him.
‘Equality between the sexes. Who would have thought?’
He had lightened the moment, which of course had been Sean’s intention.
‘Freya has a champion in McNab,’ he reminded her. ‘She can trust him with her life.’ Sean smiled. ‘Now will you come to bed with me?’
34
The library building was in darkness as he drove past on his way to Freya’s flat. If Freya had been working late, as Rhona had suggested, she wasn’t there now. Approaching the traffic lights at the foot of University Avenue, McNab ignored the red signal and drove straight through, taking a swift left up into the grid of streets behind the university union.
The arrival of the stick figure had initially annoyed rather than worried him. The papers had hyped up the Witch aspect of the killing of the two women. Black magic and sex sold newspapers and the tabloids were making the most of it. That sort of coverage attracted nutters, who liked to get involved. There had also been outrage from so-called Wiccans, defending their beliefs, accusing the police of a witch-hunt. Delivering a token like the stick figure to a member of the investigating team was on a par with all of that.
He’d been singled out on numerous occasions by angry members of the public who thought he wasn’t doing his job properly, as had Rhona. McNab suspected the real reason she’d waited four hours before calling was because she hadn’t initially spotted the faint runes or translated them. Once she had, she’d felt compelled to tell him, especially in view of the blurted confession in the lab about his love life.
Turning
the car into Freya’s street, McNab saw a figure exit the main door to her set of flats and walk swiftly away. It was a young man, tall, slim, his back towards McNab, hood up, his face unseen, yet there was something recognizable about him. McNab was momentarily tempted to follow the guy, just to check him out, then he spotted a light on in Freya’s place.
To say his heart lifted would have been an understatement.
With no empty spaces on the narrow street, McNab parked alongside a wheelie bin, despite the police warning notice that he would be towed away if he committed that particular crime. As he turned off the engine, his mobile rang and the name he’d longed for lit up the screen.
‘Freya.’
‘I just got your messages. When you didn’t call earlier, I went to the library to work and forgot my mobile.’
McNab said a thousand silent thank yous. ‘I’m sorry, I got held up at work.’
‘Are you home now?’ she said.
‘No. I’m standing outside your flat.’
There was a moment of surprised silence. ‘How long have you been there?’
‘I just arrived.’
Another short silence. ‘Are you planning on coming up, or staying on sentry duty outside?’
‘I’ll come up,’ he said.
The door buzzed open.
She met him in the hall, already naked. The fear he’d striven hard not to acknowledge drove McNab now, and he swept her into his arms, lifting her high in delight. Freya responded by encircling him with her legs. McNab carried her through to the bedroom, their laughter and desire colliding.
Laying her carefully on the bed, McNab undressed.
Before he could lie down, she moved to the edge of the bed and took him in her mouth. The action was unexpected and explosive. But McNab didn’t want this. He gently caught her head in his hands and drew her up. He wanted to cradle the face that was coming to mean so much to him. He wanted to kiss her. To make every nerve in her body sing. Freya was alive. She was safe. McNab hadn’t known until this moment just how much that meant to him.
